Out of the Night That Covers Me
by Aima D. Duragon
Summary: After the fall, Sherlock finds himself alone and plagued by thoughts of the past, or more specifically, thoughts of John. He finds himself thinking things he shouldn't think, and feeling things he shouldn't feel. And when Moriarty sends him one final case from beyond the grave, Sherlock's whole world is suddenly turned upside down. Sherlock/John
1. After the Fall

**Title**: Out of the Night that Covers Me

**Author**: Aima D. Duragon

**Warnings**: future slash (Sherlock/John)

**Spoilers**: Seasons 1 & 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. If I did then I wouldn't have to write this story to satisfy my Johnlock fantasies.

**A/N**: So I've finally been sucked in to the wonderful world of BBC's Sherlock. Ugh, it's seriously fantastic. I've just been watching the episodes over and over...it's bad. Anyway! This story just kinda popped in my head one day so I decided to share. It shouldn't be all too long (novella length I imagine) but we'll see where it takes me. Also the chapters will be much shorter than my usual stuff so hopefully I can update more often.

My beta, as of now, hasn't seen season 2 of Sherlock so I decided not to spoil it for her by having her read this. That being said, all mistakes are entirely my own!

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

_Out of the night that covers me,_

_Black as the pit from pole to pole,_

_I thank whatever gods may be_

_For my unconquerable soul._

_In the fell clutch of circumstance_

_I have not winced nor cried aloud._

_Under the bludgeonings of chance_

_My head is bloody, but unbowed._

_Beyond this place of wrath and tears_

_Looms but the Horror of the shade,_

_And yet the menace of the years_

_Finds, and shall find, me unafraid._

_It matters not how strait the gate,_

_How charged with punishments the scroll,_

_I am the master of my fate:_

_I am the captain of my soul._

_**~xXx~**_

* * *

Bored. God, he was bored.

Sherlock checked his watch, marking it as the sixteenth time he'd done so in the past half hour. The minutes seemed to be dripping around him like stale molasses, slow and confining. He was stuck in them, and it was a trap he couldn't seem to escape.

Two weeks. Had it really been only two weeks since the fall? It felt like longer. God, it felt like years.

Admittedly, he had been surprised that the aftermath had affected him so much. Sure he had expected a certain amount of…irritation that he couldn't go home—be in an environment he was used to and around the people he knew etcetera—but never anything to the level he was experiencing now. This was foreign. This was alien. This was way too close to _human_. There was a strange sort of pain in his chest, not unlike the pain he sometimes experienced when eating takeout after a period of case-induced fasting. But it was deeper somehow—less corporal and more psychological in its orientation. It troubled him constantly.

It took him less than four seconds to deduce that John was at the strange twisted core of this pain. His face—the expression Sherlock had seen on it as John had collapsed over the body he'd thought to be his—seemed to be burned into his mind's eye like an over-exposed photograph. It was bright and glaring and always there. Every thought he had seemed to circle back to it. But why? Why could he not shake that look? Sherlock let his eyes fall shut.

He'd made a mistake somewhere along the way.

The fall. No. Stop. Rewind.

The lab at St. Bart's. _She's dying, you machine!_ Sherlock blinked, frowning. Fast forward.

_No. Friends protect people._

Friends. Rewind. _Oh God, it was you. You locked me in that bloody lab_. No, farther back_. Sherlock, it must have _-No! Father back still.

_Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it: I don't have friends_. Sherlock's heart gave a peculiar jolt_. I've just got one_. Baskerville. Stop. Sherlock's eyes opened and narrowed as he steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Whatever this was, it had happened in Baskerville.

The Baskerville chemical compound had proven to be extraordinarily intriguing. John hadn't noticed him taking samples before they'd left, nor had he noticed the extra experiments he'd created around it in their kitchen. Then again, the doctor had often said he'd preferred Sherlock's chemical explorations to finding spare body parts in what he considered to be "inappropriate places". Sherlock still didn't understand why margarine tubs weren't a perfectly tolerable place to keep spare fingernails.

Off topic. Focus.

Over the last few weeks, Sherlock had managed to develop and focus the chemical into something he deemed very useful. He'd made it so that the compound could be put into any form; a gas, a liquid, or a solid powder pill. Of course, at the time, he'd never thought he'd actually need to use it. But once Moriarty's plan had come to full fruition in his mind—oh how he did love life's little coincidences.

It had been a backup plan of course; a plan that he would only put into action if the worst were to happen. He had hoped…but that didn't really matter now.

Setting up the call from Molly about Mrs. Hudson had been easy, and paying off the cabbie that picked John up from the flat to place a hidden gas pod in the back seat of his car even easier. Simple. Mundane. Exploitation of a ridiculous emotion, and a meaningless sum of money placed into the right hand. Straightforward. Dull.

The phone call to John however—the phone call that had been so very necessary to John's expectation of his death—_that_ had triggered something in Sherlock that he'd never before experienced.

Few and far in between though they may be, Sherlock was not so proud that he couldn't admit that there were times when he was wrong. Usually it was about things he didn't care about—things that had to do with, what he had often derisively referred to as, the squishy sciences. They'd never mattered to him. Why should they have? He'd understood the chemical process behind their workings, and anything else beyond that had always struck him as rather useless. A weakness, in fact. Irene Adler had taught him that much was true.

But this wasn't about love, it was about doubt. He'd seen it hundreds of times. Thousands. Maybe more. It was the expression people tended to wear when they figured out just how different Sherlock really was. He'd been sure, he'd been _so sure_ he'd seen it in John's face those last few precious hours they'd spent together in their flat. After all, Moriarty had set it all up so perfectly, why shouldn't John doubt him? John was normal, wasn't he? Sherlock knew the boring, tedious way that normal people thought. He didn't understand it, but he knew it nevertheless. Normalcy was no match for a mind as cunning as James Moriarty's.

The phone call—that had been the inception of his mistake. He'd tried to spare John the pain of bearing his cross after he died. Good, noble, decent John who'd stood up for him even when he'd given him no reason to. John didn't need the burden of being the one soldier fighting on Sherlock's side of the war after Moriarty turned the world against him. He didn't deserve that, so Sherlock had tried to tell him that it had all been a lie. He'd tried to tell him that he'd pulled the wool over his eyes the whole time—that it had all been just one big fantastical illusion. He'd wanted John to know that it was ok to believe Moriarty's deception.

His mistake: he'd thought John was normal.

But John wasn't normal. He wasn't even close.

Sherlock didn't know why he'd never seen it before. But there, standing on the roof with John's voice soft and worried in his ear, oh, how he'd seen it. Sharply, and with a stark sort of clarity that seemed to explode in his mind like the final pieces of a puzzle coming together, and the picture bright and blazing before his eyes. The confusion, the admiration, the integrity, the trust, all of it open and bared upon his expression, laid out like a map made for Sherlock to read.

John would never have believed the lie, not even if Sherlock had given him the most foolproof argument in human existence. He was stubborn like that. It was one of the qualities Sherlock loved when it convenienced him, and hated when it didn't.

Everything after the call had been easy. He'd thrown Moriarty's body off of the building, knowing John would be expecting to see him falling and therefore _would_ see him falling. And the matter of finding a second body to substitute as his own wasn't hard to take care of. They were at a hospital after all, and St. Bart's at that. He and Molly had been able to procure a corpse with enough likeness to Sherlock's that they were able to doctor it up rather convincingly. So when Moriarty's body was brought in from the street, they had the two bodies they needed, and no one who knew either of them well enough to know the difference. No one who would bother to check at least. Molly had been nervous, but Sherlock had known that John wouldn't check the body. And he hadn't. That had only left his brother, but fortunately—and predictably—he'd sent Anthea to do his dirty work for him.

Now John was out there, alone and still believing that Sherlock had died for nothing. For _nothing_. And Sherlock had made the mistake of thinking he wouldn't care.

God, he did care though. He did. It was annoying.

Here, sitting in one of the four safe-houses he'd procured in London over the last ten years, he was supposed to be planning out his next step—figuring out where the next great game was. That's what mattered most after all. That's what had always mattered most.

So why was it that now, all he could think about John's face, broken and wet with tears as he checked Moriarty's body for a pulse? Why was it that all he could hear was the way John's voice had sounded the last time he'd spoken Sherlock's name? This wasn't…how it was supposed to be. He'd lived without the doctor easily enough before. Naturally he should be able live without him again.

Baskerville. Something had changed in Baskerville. Or maybe it had been there before. Had it been there before?

His thoughts were broken by the sound of a parcel dropping through the mail slot. It landed on the tiled entryway with a muffled thud, and the gears of Sherlock's mind abruptly shifted and began to turn.

The package was small—no longer than the length of his hand—but the loudness of the landing suggested heft. So it was solid. But the sound hadn't hinted at anything metal or plastic. The material was soft, and probably somewhat pliable. That ruled out a number of things. Then there was the way it had hit—firmly, with no hint of misbalance. The object had symmetrical measurements. So, something small but with reasonable heft, made of soft material, with symmetrical measurements? Book then. Most likely leather-bound.

Sherlock threw himself out of his chair and made for the door. That was rather strange though, wasn't it? Someone sending a book here? This flat hadn't seen the likes of human life in years—he'd been sure to let the homeless network knew exactly who it belonged too. He hadn't wanted any squatters. Wrong address then? That seemed most likely.

He stooped down, sweeping up the package with one hand. One firm squeeze with his fingers informed him that he had been right—it was a book. Turning it over, he looked down at the label. His brow tightened. It was addressed to him. Just his name though, no street or city or zip code. Hand delivered then? Sherlock glanced up at the door, momentarily considering checking outside to see if whoever dropped it off was still there. Instead he peered through the peephole, and was unsurprised to find his stoop barren. With an annoyed huff, Sherlock turned back to the parcel, his eyes dissecting it. His name had been written with a fountain pen. .5mm 14 carat gold tip-obviously expensive. Unfamiliar handwriting, but most likely male. No return address. The package itself was made of thick yellow paper, and the corners were still stiff and showed only minor hints of dirt, so it had been bought recently. Either that or it had been purposefully preserved for some time.

Satisfied that he'd inspected everything worthwhile, Sherlock turned the parcel over and peeled back the sealed flap. He then flipped it on its side and held out his hand. A small leather-bound journal fell into his palm, and the detective allowed himself the barest of triumphant smiles.

Slowly he made his way back down the hall towards his chair. He thumbed the pages of the journal carefully. Thick paper and genuine calfskin leather, slightly worn around the edges, so not new. He pushed back the cover. No sign of any branding or copywrite, though the craftsmanship would suggest mass marketing. He turned to the next page. Someone had obviously—Sherlock started, and the journal flew from his hand like a hot coal. Heart springing into his throat, the detective stumbled backwards, very nearly losing his balance. The journal landed on the wooden floor with a loud thump that seemed to resonate in Sherlock's ears like a gunshot.

He stared at the journal. It wasn't possible. It wasn't.

His limbs seemed to spring back to life in a blink. Scrambling forward, he plucked up the journal and opened it once more. But no. The words were still there, glaring at him with the same ferocity as the person who wrote them used to.

~_Property of James Moriarty_~

Holding his breath, Sherlock turned to the next page and began to read. And once he started, he couldn't stop.

_Hello, sexy. Have you missed me? I'll bet you have. I'll also bet you're wondering why you're receiving this marvelous little gift from me, especially considering the fact that if you're holding this, I'm quite undeniably dead, and you're quite annoyingly alive._

_ Funny, the little games life plays with us, hm? Too bad I hate to lose. Did you think I wouldn't plan for this? I bet you did. Oh, how I would love to see the look on your face right now—I bet you look positively edible. Just thinking about it makes me a little giddy. It almost makes it ok that I'm dead._

_ But it's not okay, Sherlock. It's not. You've been a very bad boy. You didn't listen to what daddy said, and now he's going to have to punish you. _

_ So we're going to play one last game, you and I, and this time I'm going to make you listen. I'm going to be sending you three journals and three bodies over the next three days. And if you're a good boy, on the fourth day I'll reward you with a very special gift. Sounds like fun, doesn't it? I would be very excited if I wasn't—you know—worm food._

_ You have two jobs. One: find the connection. This part should be easy for you, Sherlock. You're a smart boy after all, and I know how you love to show off that big brain of yours. Two: find out what it means. And this is where you mucked it all up before, darling. This is where you _missed my point_. Once you find it though, then you have my permission to die. _

_ Do try your hardest for me now. I'll be watching closely._

_ You'll find the first body at 292 Sarsfield Rd. Hurry along now, Sherlock._

_Eternally yours,_

_ Jim_

Sherlock turned to the next page, only to find it blank. So was the next, and the next. He quickly thumbed through the remaining pages to make sure the rest of the journal was empty before resuming his seat in his chair and setting it aside. He couldn't afford to overreact. He needed to think. Sherlock closed his eyes, his mind turning.

Possibilities.

One: The journal was a fake, and the body was a trap.

Two: The journal wasn't a fake, and the body was a trap.

Three: The journal wasn't a fake, and the body was real and waiting to be examined.

Two seemed the most likely. The writing had shown the same speech patterns as Moriarty and the correct sort of graphology for his particular form of psychosis. It was understandable that he would have…planned for what had happened to him. It was understandable that Moriarty—Sherlock slammed his fist on the arm of his chair, baring his teeth with a furious growl. No! This wasn't how it was supposed to be! Moriarty was supposed to be dead, and stay that way just like every other proper corpse! Sherlock had won, hadn't he? That's what this had all been about: the game, and it was over now. _Over_. So how could they still be playing? It didn't make sense. And even worse, Moriarty knew—Sherlock glanced at the journal again—he _knew_ that the detective couldn't resist the bait. A dead body sent to him from his greatest adversary from beyond the grave? How could he not go?

With another growl, Sherlock propelled himself up from the chair, grabbing his coat, scarf, a spare artificial beard and prosthetic nose, and headed for the door.

* * *

Well that was fun! I hope you all enjoyed!

**Reviews help Sherlock solve cases faster! It's a proven statement of fact!**


	2. The Problem with John

**Title**: Out of the Night that Covers Me

**Author**: Aima D. Duragon

**Warnings**: future slash (Sherlock/John)

**Spoilers**: Seasons 1 & 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. If I did then I wouldn't have to write this story to satisfy my Johnlock fantasies.

**A/N**: Looks like Sunday will be my update day! Woo! My goal will be to update every Sunday until the story is done, and seeing as there will only be around 10 chapters (I'm hoping...) or so, I think I can manage it!

My beta, as of now, hasn't seen season 2 of Sherlock so I decided not to spoil it for her by having her read this. That being said, all mistakes are entirely my own!

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

As suspected, 292 Sarsfield Rd. wasn't exactly close. His temporary flat was on the far east side of London, and he'd caught a cab during peak evening traffic which put his estimated time of arrival approximately 37 minutes from now. Though, he supposed that the time the parcel was delivered and thus his time of his departure had been purposefully planned, if only because nothing Moriarty did was ever accidental. Sherlock snorted and leaned against the window of his cab, his mind iterating through Moriarty's words like a broken record.

_Three bodies and three journals over the next three days_.

Interesting. Were they already dead, or was there a chance that Sherlock could stop the murders before they happened like before? He would have to assume the former for now. Moriarty's point hadn't been for him to stop anyone from dying. His interest wasn't in watching him dance. No…this time he wanted Sherlock to understand something. But what? What point had he missed?

_I'll be watching closely_.

And what did that mean? Of course, Moriarty hadn't meant himself. Obvious. So then there was someone still loyal to him—someone still willing to have their strings pulled even though the puppet master was dead. Someone loyal enough to murder three people just to play this little game. But who could possibly be so loyal to a dead man? A sudden shiver wracked Sherlock's spine as John's name waded across his mind, and another annoying pang in his chest caused the detective to squirm uncomfortably in his seat.

John. He still needed to figure out this thing with John. Then maybe this feeling would stop distracting him.

Baskerville? No, he needed to go through all of it. All of it, starting from the very beginning.

Normally, Sherlock didn't keep detailed records of people in his mind-palace. Usually he would just log any important information—if there was any—and toss it in a back room somewhere. But for some reason he hadn't done that with John. John had his own room, up front and easily accessible so that Sherlock could peek in whenever he so chose. Sherlock told himself that living with the doctor made it pertinent that he do so, though he didn't bother to note that no one else he'd ever lived with had received the same treatment.

Alright. So he needed to find them—moments. Important moments. Ones that stood out among the others because…well…because John had been trying to tell him something that he'd chosen to ignore. Not with words. Sherlock rarely ignored John's words. The message was something subtle—something written between the lines of gestures and expressions. Maybe John didn't even know it himself. But the evidence was there—Sherlock just had to find it.

The beginning. He had to start from the beginning.

_We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name_.

No. Fast forward.

_Of course it was. Extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary._

Fast forward.

_Alright…do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way._ Stop. Zoom in. Play. _I know it's fine._ Eyebrows raised, slight hint of smile at corners of lips. Shoulders pushed back. Direct eye contact. _So you've got a boyfriend?_ No signs of dilation in pupils or accelerated respiration. _No._ Break of eye contact, followed by a nod. _Right. Okay_. Short laughing sigh. Barest touch of red coloring the tips of his ears. _You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good._ And Sherlock remembered finding this strange. It was the sigh—the thought that birthed it was impossible to determine, and Sherlock didn't like things he couldn't deduce from observation. But it still wasn't enough. Fast forward.

_Stop. We can't giggle. It's a crime scene. Stop it._

Fast forward.

_Do you realize you do that?_

Stop. Ah, yes. There it was. Zoom in. Play.

They were having dinner at Angelo's again, as had become their habit on nights such as this one—boring ones where Sherlock would keep his phone on the table and glance at it every twenty seconds in hope that he'd received a text from Lestrade. After all, they couldn't exactly afford to eat out often, and Angelo was always more than happy to provide a free meal. Sherlock even ordered something this time. A rarity and a tall tale sign that this night had been one of the good ones.

"I'm sure you're bound to like at least one of them," John said. He was talking about James Bond movies. Apparently Sherlock had unwittingly agreed to a marathon of them. "Really, Sherlock, didn't your mum and dad ever take you to the cinema?"

"Why would they have?"

John blinked at him. "Because that's what families do?"

Sherlock sighed and took a drink from his glass of water. "Sounds boring."

"I'm starting to think everything sounds boring to you."

Ignoring him, the detective picked up his phone and unlocked it. He pulled down the notification bar with his thumb, and stared irately at it. "Why do you think Lestrade hasn't texted? It's been weeks since the pink lady—surely there's _someone_ who's been murdered."

"Maybe the police are actually—you know—doing their job."

Sherlock shut off his phone and placed it back on the table. "If their job consists of mucking things up, then yes I think you're right."

John nodded, his mouth twisting up into that amused smirk that Sherlock was still getting used to. John's mouth wasn't derisive like most peoples' were. "Well, if that's the case, you can be rest assured they'll be calling after you soon, hm? Until then, a Bond marathon will have to suffice."

"Dull."

"You know, some of them are actually quite clev—" he cut off abruptly just as a young woman walked past their table. John's dark sea-blue eyes abandoned Sherlock's to lock onto the woman's backside, which—Sherlock noted with a glance—was mostly covered by a thick cream-colored coat. He spared her of his normal deductions, favoring John's appreciation of her instead. Interesting.

"Do you realize you do that?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor's eyelids fluttered slightly before his attention refocused on Sherlock. "Do what?"

"Stare at women for prolonged periods of time." Obviously. What else would he have meant? Really, normal people could be so idiotic. Luckily though, John wasn't as annoying about it as most. He didn't go around waving his normalcy in the air like some great banner that others were expected to follow without dissent—he didn't look down on Sherlock for being…different. In fact, more often than not, he commended him for it, usually with luscious complimentary words that the detective had always known were true but enjoyed hearing nevertheless. Sherlock couldn't deny that he had offhandedly taken to making needless observations just to hear those laudatory words spill over John's lips.

"Do you not stare at women?"

"Dead women, yes. Live women, rarely, and not if I can avoid it. Though in both cases I don't think I take the amount of time you seem to enjoy." Sherlock smirked ever so slightly, silently enjoying the way John's eyes narrowed.

John's mouth quirked. "You're about to tell me something crazy, aren't you?"

"I'd say that heavily depends on your definition of crazy. Do you want to hear it?"

"No." A beat of silence followed by an aggravated sigh. "Alright, fine. Yes."

"The average straight male takes approximately 3.2 seconds to assess and appreciate a notable female passerby. Roughly 1.3 seconds for the face, 1 second for the breasts and/or backside, and the remaining to the general symmetry and proportion of the body. You, however, take an average of 5.9 seconds to make the same deductions—nearly double the time though you are neither slow of wit nor socially dysfunctional. So why then? Why the prolonged stare? Perhaps a trait learned from your father? No—facial muscle contraction and frequency of blinking suggest that this is not a habit you gained subconsciously. This is something you're aware of, at least on some level. So there was a point when you felt you had to adopt this idiosyncrasy, probably to sate some social dictation of a group of men that you valued the opinion of. A mannerism most likely learned in the army then. So there was a time during your service when you felt you had to do more than just look at women, you had to make a _point_ of looking at women." Sherlock hummed and leaned over the table. "Fascinating. Tell me why."

John just stared at him with large dark eyes, his mouth falling open and snapping shut several times before he actually got a word out. "I—that's not—" But that was all he was able to utter before Angelo arrived at their table, food in hand.

He set down their plates of pasta, laughing that deep gravelly laugh that sometimes made Sherlock wish he hadn't gotten the man off his murder accusation. This was one of those times. "You alright there, John? You look like your feathers got a bit ruffled." His eyes shifted between the two men. "Sherlock hasn't gone off and said something stupid again has he?"

"Again?" Sherlock glared up at the long-haired man.

"You'd best be careful, Sherlock," Angelo continued affably, pointedly ignoring the glare. "Or John here will up and leave you flat on your bum. And then where would you be?"

Sherlock huffed, picking up his fork and stabbing at the pasta Angelo had placed in front of him. "Hardly. John's not going anywhere, are you John." He didn't bother phrasing it as a question. It wasn't one.

"No, Sherlock," John answered softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Whoop, I forgot the candle!" Angelo bustled off, but Sherlock and John hardly noticed. John had all but given up on telling Angelo that he wasn't the detective's date—it was like trying to tell Anderson that he was a floundering, know-nothing twit: useless, and mostly a waste of breath, but still fun on occasion.

"So, about the staring—"

"Drop it, Sherlock."

Something in John's tone made him look up. It was an emotion he hadn't encountered in the doctor before. Not annoyance. Not anger. No…it was something else. "You know that I'll figure it out for myself eventually."

John glanced up at him then, and there it was. The look. Pause. Zoom in. Brow tightened but not quite furrowed. Blue eyes misted. Mouth pulled down slightly at the edges. Skin flushed, but not overly so. Respiration: normal. Pupils: normal. Flaring of nostrils: normal. Where was it? Sherlock gazed at John's face desperately. It was nothing! It was just a look! But there had to be _something_. So, what? Why couldn't Sherlock see it?

Play. Slow motion.

"I don't think you will, Sherlock. Not this time."

"We're here, sir," the cabbie's high-pitched nasally voice broke through Sherlock's veil of thoughts. Grumbling, Sherlock pulled some cash from his pocket and handed it to the cabbie. He pulled on the door handle and exited the car without bothering to wait for change. The cabbie didn't seem to mind, however—he sped off not a second later.

It had grown rather dark over the duration of the cab ride, and though it was June there was a stinging chill whipping through the air. Sherlock found himself strangely thankful that his prosthetic beard was thick enough to keep his face warm. It was itchy as hell though. Scratching idly at his chin, the detective took in his surroundings. The neighborhood itself didn't look particularly drab, though it certainly felt quite desolate. It was only about seven thirty and yet there wasn't a soul to be found on the street. He was standing outside a blue wooden duplex—most likely built in the mid 80's judging from the architecture and state of the foundation.

Sherlock studied it for a long moment, starting at the roof and slowly letting his eyes drift down. They didn't find much until he reached the lawn. There was a narrow cement pathway leading up to the steps to the porch. The grass on either side was short, trimmed, and overall meticulously kept, but about halfway up the walkway there was a small indention. Sherlock approached it slowly. It wasn't large—probably only a couple inches in size—but the rounded edge suggested the heel of a boot, and the width and depth of the depression suggested that its owner was male. A fairly sizable man at that. There were other curious markings as well. The man had been carrying something. Sherlock glanced back up at the house, momentarily wishing John was next to him. John's hand would've probably been on the grip of his pistol right about now—he didn't much care for dark deserted streets.

Shaking the feeling off, Sherlock strode purposefully up to the base of the house and climbed the steps to the porch two at a time. One glance down at the front door's lock told him that the bolt had been broken with a large blunt object—most likely a crowbar. He reached out and pushed the door open, the screeching of unoiled hinges breaking through the still air. He was beginning to feel it now—that all too familiar rush of adrenaline that sang like a nightingale in his blood. The air fell silent once more, and Sherlock stood motionless as a statue, his ears straining to hear a sound beyond the dark. But there was nothing.

With a deep breath, Sherlock stepped inside. He slunk into a shaded corner, allowing time for his eyes to adjust to the dim surroundings and keeping his breaths as soft as possible. There was a stairwell immediately in front of him, a small sitting room off to his left, and a kitchen somewhere beyond that. His gaze swept across the room, and immediately honed in on the bottom step of the stairwell. There, muddying the faded pink carpet was the same heel-print. There was one on the step above as well…and they were both backwards. So the man had walked up the stairs backwards, which meant whatever he'd been carrying was heavy enough that he'd had to drag it. Sherlock's mind immediately shot back to the journal—_three bodies…three days_. So there really was a body waiting for him.

No longer taking precaution into consideration, Sherlock bounded up the steps. The stairwell opened up into a large empty room, and lying there in the middle, sprawled out on a large plastic tarp was the dead body of a woman. Sherlock's eyes hastily swept over the rest of the room, but the man who dragged her here was nowhere in sight. Hopefully by now he was long gone.

Sherlock marched up to the body and kneeled down next to it, soaking in the vision before him. The light coming from the lone window was faint, but he made do. The woman was lying on her back, her arms and legs spread out like a Da Vinci drawing, and her large brown eyes open and staring blankly up at the ceiling. A twinge of familiarity skittered down Sherlock's spine, but he ignored it. The exposed skin on her face, neck, and arms was badly bruised, but it was obvious that she had died from a bullet wound. Her white coat—a lab coat, Sherlock noted—was drenched with blood. The bullet had passed through her chest cavity, to the left of her sternum just above her breast. Sherlock lifted the coat. Judging from the size of the entry wound, the bullet had come from a sniper rifle, which had been fired from a good distance away—at least 300 metres. A crack shot. She'd been dead—Sherlock eyed the skin of her jawline—two—and then picked up her wrist—no, three days. And her body had obviously been transported and carried around a good deal in the meantime.

Sherlock continued through his other normal observations. No license or form of identification, but obviously in her twilight years. Married. Small delicate hands but well cared for and moisturized often. Hints of deep cuts and—_doctor_. Doctor! This woman was a doctor! And she was familiar—he'd seen her before. She worked at St. Bart's.

Heart suddenly pounding, Sherlock jammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the prepaid cell phone he'd allowed himself for emergencies. His thumb began moving along the keys, dialing the number he'd forced himself not to delete from his memory. He pressed the phone to his ear and listened to it ring once. Twice. Three times. Four.

"Hello?" a tired voice answered.

"Yes, Molly?"

"I—" there was a prolonged moment of silence. "Who is this?"

"It's Sherlock."

"My God. Sherlock…I—I'm so glad to hear from you. You'd said—"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock interrupted impatiently. "I know what I said, but this is important. I've just found a woman's body. She's been shot dead." There was an audible gasp on the other side of the line. "And I think she worked with you. I'm going to need—"

"That's fine. Of course. I'll meet you at the morgue in fifteen."

Sherlock hung up the phone without another word.

* * *

Hm...so who is this mysterious woman? Stay tuned to find out!

**Reviews help Sherlock solve cases faster! It's a proven statement of fact!**


	3. Sylvia's File

**Title**: Out of the Night that Covers Me

**Author**: Aima D. Duragon

**Warnings**: future slash (Sherlock/John)

**Spoilers**: Seasons 1 & 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. If I did then I wouldn't have to write this story to satisfy my Johnlock fantasies.

**A/N**: Oh! I forgot to mention that most of the particulars (times spans and other things) are taken from John's blog-if you guys haven't checked it out you should! Just Google "John Watson's blog" and it should pop right up. Gives a lot of insight, and the comments are pretty hilarious :)

Bad news: This is a really short chapter. Good news: this will be the shortest chapter you encounter, so now you have more to look forward to!

My beta, as of now, hasn't seen season 2 of Sherlock so I decided not to spoil it for her by having her read this. That being said, all mistakes are entirely my own!

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

"Is…is it her?" Molly asked, shifting nervously on her feet and very obviously wanting to peer over Sherlock's shoulder at the file laid out on the table in front of him.

"Yes," Sherlock replied monotonously, trying his best to ignore Molly's close proximity. He really wished she would stand somewhere else—her hovering was blocking his main source of light. Not to mention she was wearing too much of that odd smelling perfume again, and it was beginning to give him a headache. He'd briefly considered saying something, but every time the words were about to escape him, all he could hear was John's voice in his head saying, _You could try being nice for once, Sherlock_. For some reason, that was enough to quell his tongue.

Shaking thoughts of John from his mind, Sherlock continued flipping through the dead woman's employment record file. As it turned out, her name was Sylvia Yaskoff. 66 years of age, wife to Jonathon Yaskoff, and employee at St. Bart's since 1983. She'd started off as a professor and residential instructor, working her way up through the ranks before being promoted to head of general surgery in the late nineties. Boring. Sherlock flipped a page. Boring. And another. Boring, boring, boring! Why in the world would Moriarty send him this woman? Annoyed, Sherlock snapped the folder shut and thrust it back in Molly's general direction.

"Oh!" Molly scrambled to catch the folder as Sherlock released it from his hold. She righted herself quickly, pushing a stray fringe of bang back behind her ear. "I guess you didn't find what you wanted then?"

Sherlock laid his elbows on the table and propped his chin on the tips of his fingers. "Obviously."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

Molly made a nervous sort of squeaking noise. "I—I dunno."

Sherlock hummed, his mind already back on Sylvia. Perhaps there was a reason she had to be an employee at St. Bart's. After all, Moriarty had obviously known that Sherlock frequented the location—he wouldn't have gone after Molly otherwise. But why _her_? Why this particular woman? Because there had to be a reason. The first thing Sherlock had been instructed to do was make a connection, but that was almost impossible without another body to inspect. So what was he supposed to do? Just wait around until tomorrow, when he had been promised another victim? No…Moriarty wouldn't make him wait—he was too proud for that. There was something here—something he was missing…

"Sherlock?"

Clenching his jaw against the acerbic words that burned at the back of his throat, the detective turned to face her. He could hear John's voice again—_Intelligent. Fine. Let's give smartass a wide berth._ Sherlock pursed his lips, resisting the urge to bite the inside of his cheek. "Yes?" There. That was pleasant and ordinary enough wasn't it? He almost went to look for John, knowing one glance from him would tell if the word had been barbed or not, but stopped himself just in time, and looked at Molly instead.

Their eyes connected, and Molly's cheeks went red. "It's…it's really good to see you, is all. I didn't think I ever would again—especially not so soon."

"Yes, well," Sherlock thrummed his fingers on the countertop, "this is a one-time thing I can assure you."

"What?"

"We've been over this, Molly," Sherlock said, his voice low and stern.

"Yes I know but," her throat seemed to tighten, "Jim is dead now. It's all over, isn't it? There's no reason why you couldn't come back."

"And assume nothing like this would ever happen again?" Sherlock rebutted scathingly. "Don't be naïve—you've read John's blog." His heart stuttered so violently that it seemed to push all the oxygen out of his lungs. It was the first time he'd allowed himself to utter John's name since the fall. Sherlock rubbed at his chest, his brow furrowing with annoyance. Really, this was beginning to get ridiculous.

Molly shook her head, clutching the folder tightly to her chest. "I don't know what you mean."

"What he said—the entry he made on March 28 last year!"

She continued to look at him vacantly.

Sherlock blew out a quick breath. "Honestly, don't you people ever pay attention to anything? He said, quote, 'All these people he involves in his adventures…They're not safe. We're not safe.' Unquote. Don't you see, Molly? John knew that my enemies—people like Moriarty—would see you, him, Mrs. Hudson, _everyone_, as ways to get at me. John knew he'd eventually become a target. He knew it even before I did!"

"Yeah, he knew and he still stayed! Can't you see that he—!" She snapped her mouth shut, her gaze abruptly dropping to the ground and her bottom lip rolling beneath the line of her teeth. "Don't you think that means something?"

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock rose from his stool, his eyes dropping to the floor as well. "I can't afford to have that kind of leverage held over me again." He took a couple steps forward, brushing past Molly and aiming for the door, but something stopped him. That single moment seemed to hold him still, its vagarious ties wrapping around his limbs and weighing him to the ground. It was just curiosity, or so he told himself. His heart gave another painful flutter. He wondered…he couldn't help but wonder. It was his nature after all, and it would be so easy to ask…just to ask…"How is he?" Sherlock was surprised by the softness in his own voice. "I—" He shook himself, ignoring the way his ribcage seemed to constrict against his lungs and began walking forward once more. "Never mind."

"He's been avoiding me," Molly said quickly, causing Sherlock to pause once more. "He's completely ignored my calls and texts, but I did manage to get a hold of Mrs. Hudson a couple days ago, and…he's not doing well, Sherlock."

Sherlock rocked back and forth uncertainly. "He's mourning—that's what people do when someone dies isn't it? It'll pass soon enough."

"You act like it's selfishness, but I know you think that playing dead will make it so that the people you care about won't be in danger anymore. But it's not going to work, Sherlock. If any of those people that hate you so much as caught wind that you were alive, who do you think they'd go after first to draw you out of hiding? If you're trying to keep him safe, this isn't the way to do it…"

"It's whom."

"What?"

Sherlock sighed. "It's '_whom_ do you think they'd go after'. Really, Molly, you're a doctor, you should know—"

"For goodness sake, Sherlock—" Molly started forward, but being clumsy footed as ever, somehow managed to catch the heel of her boot on the hem of her trousers. She stumbled forward, Sylvia's file flying from her arms and falling to the floor in a flurry of papers. Looking on the verge of tears, Molly dropped to her knees and began sweeping the contents back together. "I—I know you're not very good at this kind of thing—people I mean…but he was your best friend. And I saw the way you two were together. I saw it. And the way you changed after you met him—"

"Stop."

Molly looked up at him, her eyes large and rimmed with red. "I—I'm sorry. It's not my place, I know, but—what are you doing?"

Sherlock swept forward and kneeled down in front of her. He reached out, his fingers gliding along a page and pushing it to the side…and there it was. It was a small yellowed piece of paper, crumpled and old, and covered in Moriarty's handwriting. The detective plucked the sheet off the ground and held it out for examination. He'd meant to inspect the condition of the material itself first, but his eyes were hungry for the words. The paper had been ripped however—purposefully, judging by the way the tear wrapped carefully around certain words—so that the message was segmented in parts.

_Dr. Sylvia,_

_ I'm afraid it's time to call in that favor of mine. I've been keeping a—_

_on your work, and I think this could come together quite well. There's—_

_in your keeping that would be of great use to me. His name is—_

_he's just the sort of specimen I've been looking for. I'm sure you've seen—_

_ Well it's very important that you convince him to consider going to—_

_for me. Don't you worry yourself about the logistics of the matter—_

_will be expecting him soon. There's a good girl. Now, do remember—_

_the last time someone crossed me. I'm sure you don't want to find—_

_in that situation ever again. I look forward to hearing of your success soon—_

_Until next time, doll._

_ ~M_

So Sylvia had had connections with Moriarty? But how? Why? Sherlock waved these questions off—they weren't important. Not really. What was important was what the letter meant. It had obviously been placed there by someone who had wanted him to find it. Personal notes didn't just find their way into employee files on their own. The question was—had Sylvia put it there herself, or had it been Moriarty's puppet? Either way it was a clue—a potential catalyst to the connection he needed.

Sherlock smiled as he pocketed the letter and rose swiftly to his feet, spinning on his heel and making for the door. He needed to stop by an orchestra shop on his way home to pick up a spare violin. It wouldn't be the same as his one at Baker Street, but he didn't have time to be picky—he needed something that would help him _think_. A rudimentary chemistry set might also—

"Sherlock!"

Molly's voice jerked him back into reality. Frowning, Sherlock turned.

"I—" Molly's eyes seemed larger than ever, and they stood out like black coals against the white snow of her skin. She was standing again, the contents of Sylvia's file balanced precariously in her arms. "So that's it then? You leave and…and that's it?"

"Yes, Molly." Sherlock lowered his chin. "That's it."

"But—"

"Don't tell John," Sherlock said before whipping around once more, his coat tails billowing as he rushed out the door.

* * *

And the plot thickens...(sorry again for the shortness, but this was the only stopping point I could come up with without giving too much away *dies*)

**Reviews help Sherlock solve cases faster! It's a proven statement of fact!**


	4. Invaluable

**Title**: Out of the Night that Covers Me

**Author**: Aima D. Duragon

**Warnings**: future slash (Sherlock/John)

**Spoilers**: Seasons 1 & 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. If I did then I wouldn't have to write this story to satisfy my Johnlock fantasies.

**A/N**: So I'm actually going out of town this weekend, so I figured I'd post this chapter early just in case. Hope everyone enjoys!

My beta, as of now, hasn't seen season 2 of Sherlock so I decided not to spoil it for her by having her read this. That being said, all mistakes are entirely my own!

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

Later that evening found Sherlock furiously plucking at the strings of his new violin. He'd thrown aside his bow a good while ago seeing as it impeded his poor posture and his arm had been growing sore. That, and the sharp sting of the strings as they dug into the pads of his fingers really seemed to stimulate the rhythm of his mind, and right now he needed as much stimulation as he could get.

His experiments on Sylvia's letter from Moriarty had been disappointing at best. He'd found out little of what he'd wanted to know—only that the letter was at least five years old and that the ink had been a special homemade blend, which therefore made it untraceable. The rest of it had been as blank as a fresh coat of paint. Too blank in fact. No fingerprints. No DNA samples. Nothing. Which at least served in telling him that the letter had not been placed in the file by Sylvia—no normal citizen knew how to remove such things, much less took the time to do so. So that only left option two: the puppet.

This was less than encouraging.

If Moriarty's henchman was giving him the clues, then Sherlock could be rest assured that he would only be receiving the kind of information Moriarty wanted him to receive. Of course, because this was the puppet and not the master, there was a chance for a larger margin of error, but not one large enough to give Sherlock any real sense of hope. After all, Moriarty wasn't prone to trusting people, which meant that this man—whoever he was—wasn't _ordinary_.

Sherlock moved his fingers along the neck of his violin, thrumming the A string and listening to the note ripple through the air. He'd been over Moriarty's letter a thousand times in his head, but even so he found the words scrolling before his eyes once more. The obvious: one: Sylvia had known someone—a male someone—that had to be sent somewhere. Two: Sylvia, apparently, had the power to do this, or at least lend some form of encouragement. But who Moriarty wanted and for what purpose, Sherlock simply couldn't deduce. Was that what he was supposed to figure out—who this unnamed male was? Impossible. Having once been a professor, she would've known and had sway over hundreds of people. How was the he supposed to figure out which one was the one Moriarty had wanted?

_I've just got one_.

The detective nearly growled. And there it was again, pulling at his consciousness like a fish caught on a hook. He set aside his violin and laid back in his chair. He'd been resisting these thoughts for too long today, and they were beginning to build up. Best to keep the flow steady so as not to break the dam. He'd hit a temporary dead end with Sylvia anyway—he supposed he could devote a few minutes to his issue with John.

Right then, the look. The moments. He mentally sifted away the sands of Sylvia's death and Moriarty's mystery and pulled John into the forefront of his mind. The doctor's face flashed before his eyes, so Sherlock shut them, forcing the image into blackness. He took a deep breath and blew it back out again.

The Blind Banker—that was what John had titled their next big case in his blog. The one he'd posted on March 28th. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth twitch downwards. That case had taken place only a week or so after their dinner at Angelo's—it was as good a place as any to start.

The moments. Find the moments.

_Didn't notice I'd gone out then? I went to see about a job at that surgery._

Ah, right. That was when he'd met Sarah. Sherlock snorted—he'd never cared for her. She was too soft for John, and she'd made him sleep on the sofa. Not that Sherlock was an expert on relationships, but he was pretty sure that qualified Sarah as being a bad companion. And what more, she—no, stay focused. Fast forward.

_Sherlock, what are you_—he was cupping either side of John's face, and they were spinning while—No. Fast forward.

_I'm not Sherlock Holmes!_

Fast forward.

_Sebastian—he said he knew you_.

Pause. Sherlock's brow tightened as his fingers came together just beneath his nose, his breath warming them as he exhaled. Zoom in. He hadn't noticed this moment before—it had seemed so dull to him at the time. They'd been out at a pub, because apparently John felt Sherlock owed him for nearly getting he and Sarah killed and had decided that his comeuppance would be a 'night out on the town'. It hadn't been too severe of a punishment, he supposed. John had been drinking, as he often liked to do on weekends, and really it had seemed so very ordinary. But now…

Play.

"That guy from the bank—Sebastian—he said he knew you from Uni. So you went to college, then?" John asked, sipping off the last of his third pint. They were seated in a crammed dark corner at a local pub just down the street from their flat. It was a quaint sort of place, but had the unfortunate habit of being quite crowded on Saturday nights. They had been lucky to find a table. "How old were you when you went? Thirteen? Fourteen?"

"Of course not," Sherlock replied, not really paying attention. His time at university wasn't a topic he much cared to discuss. "Mum didn't think it was proper for Mycroft and me to surpass everyone so quickly—didn't want the neighbors to talk. Ever the slave to propriety, our mother. She kept us both in secondary school until we were eighteen—much to the dismay of our teachers."

"Your teachers?"

"Yes. They seemed to be under the impression that I tormented them constantly."

John smirked. "Imagine that."

"It's hardly my fault I knew the subject matter better than they did."

"Oh, right, of course." John nodded, his lips doing that strange pursing thing they sometimes did when he was trying not to laugh. Sherlock spared him a quick glare before returning to his crowd watching. He was currently amusing himself by trying to figure out the profession of every person taller than 5'7 in the bar—the shorter ones were too hard to see accurately. "So where did you finally end up going then?"

"Cambridge, obviously."

"Obviously. And what did you get your degree in?"

"I didn't."

John's brows came together. "Didn't what?"

"Get a degree."

"You didn't—you didn't get a degree?"

"Why should I have? I took the classes I needed to get the information I wanted. Everything else was useless. Irrelevant."

John goggled. "But, after doing all of that work…didn't you _want_ one?

Sherlock turned to look at him, somewhat annoyed that he'd been interrupted in the middle of deciphering whether man #22's left hand qualified him as an exterminator or firefighter. "Are you going to continue asking me questions all night? I don't think that was mentioned when I agreed to come here with you."

"We live together—am I not supposed to try to get to know you better?"

"Another question. I see. I'm going to assume that means the answer to mine is a definite yes."

Grimacing, John drained the last dregs of his beer and set the mug back down on the table. He stared down at it for a long moment, his fingers making patterns out of the condensation that now wetted the sides. "It just feels strange. We've lived together for—what—two months now? And I still feel like I don't know a thing about you. Not the common things people know at least."

"You know how I like my tea," Sherlock offered. "That's fairly common, I'd say."

John glanced up at him through a veil of pale lashes. "I suppose." There was a long beat of silence. "Would you prefer if I didn't ask you questions?"

"Doesn't really make a difference—you're going to ask me anyway."

"Not if you really don't want me to."

"Oh, maybe you won't ask me _now_, but sooner or later down the road, that itch will tickle you again and then we'll have to start this process all over. Might as well get it out of the way—rip the band-aid off all in one go, as they say."

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John slammed his mug down on the table, and as the glass clanged against the wood, several tables around them went suddenly quiet, their occupants' heads all turning in unison. John reddened, his head ducking ever so slightly as he muttered his apologies to the surrounding crowd. Sherlock merely stared at him, strangely perplexed by the violence of the other man's outburst. He didn't look angry per-say, but there was a deep wrinkle set between his brows and his jaw was set in a hard line. After the crowd's chatter had picked back up a bit, John turned back towards him, and Sherlock found himself pinned to the back of his chair by the emotion raging in those deep blue eyes. "Is that really all I am to you still?" he hissed. "Just a bandage you have to rip off? Just someone you have to satiate so he doesn't bother you all the time with his _boring_ questions? God, I thought—" He cut off abruptly, shaking his head and moving his piercing gaze back to the table.

Once freed from John's stare, Sherlock found himself leaning forward. "You thought what?" And this part had been a little odd—the fact that he had actually been curious about what John was thinking and feeling. The fact that, in that moment, the puzzle in front of him actually seemed one worth solving.

John shook his head again. "I don't know."

"John." He leaned in even farther. They were close now—so close that he could smell the light scent of his own shampoo in John's hair, indicating that the doctor had once again forgotten to buy his normal brand at the market.

"For God's sake, I don't—" John looked up at him and the words seemed to fall off his tongue. He seemed startled to find Sherlock so close, but he didn't pull back. Instead he took in a deep breath and let it back out in one shuddering wave, and Sherlock felt its wet heat warm the skin of his lips and cheeks. "I thought that I mattered," he finished softly.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Of course you matter. I've told you that I need an assistant to—"

"Not like that," John interjected, and Sherlock found it strangely intriguing that he could feel the other man's words as he spoke them. "Not like a dog matters to its owner, Sherlock. I meant like how two people matter to each other—their thoughts, their interests, what they like, what they don't like, where the bloody hell they went to Uni! I know you already know all that stuff about me. Hell, you probably knew it within the first ten seconds of meeting me, but did you ever once consider the fact that I might want to know those things about you too?"

"I'm flattered," Sherlock said, smiling slightly, "that you think I could know all that about you in ten seconds."

John snorted. "You don't understand a bloody word of what I'm trying to say, do you." He laughed then, a sharp barking sound with no hint of mirth. "I'm going to get another pint." Pushing his chair back, the doctor made to stand, but Sherlock caught his arm and pulled him back down. Sherlock didn't know why he'd done that exactly, but it had seemed important at the time. He'd needed John to grasp what he'd meant.

John's sweater was thick, but Sherlock could still feel his muscles bunching, army instinct overcoming the knowledge that he was in a safe environment. But Sherlock didn't let go. "You give yourself too little credit, John," he said slowly, willing the other man to understand. "I know that I'm not exactly the easiest person to get on with—not that I much care, mind you, but even so it's made having a companion of any form rather difficult. John, besides my family, you've stayed with me," Sherlock paused, gathering a quick mental note, "one month and thirteen days longer than any other person ever has. You don't try to smother my gift, and talking to you…_with_ you…helps me. You don't realize how important that makes you. You're invaluable to me." For once, Sherlock wished he could hear how his words sounded to other people. He knew what they meant to him—they meant that he _needed_ John, that the other man had somehow wheedled his way into becoming _necessary_. Sherlock had never had someone who was necessary to him before. Not like this. He hoped John could see that.

"I—say that again."

Sherlock blinked. "You give yourself—"

"No, not all of it. Just the last thing. Just the last thing you said."

The detective could feel, even though the thickness of the sweater, that John was trembling. Sherlock's fingers tightened even further, aching to feel the beat of a pulse. "You're invaluable to me."

John closed his eyes, his mouth pulling down into a peculiar sort of frown, like he was concentrating particularly hard on something. "Right." He nodded once, his eyes opening once more. "Right. I'm going to go get that pint. Want anything?"

Sherlock released him, the muscles in his hand throbbing unpleasantly as he pulled it back to his side. "Nothing for me, thanks."

"I'll bring you some water."

For once, Sherlock didn't argue.

John turned to go and—there! There it was again: that look. _The_ look. Pause. Zoom in. The physicality of it was different this time: pupils slightly dilated, skin flushed, respiratory elevated, but more than likely all of those were side effects from the alcohol. The expression however, _that_ part was the same. Sherlock could see it, from the tilt of his head to the curve of his throat. Why was it that this particular look made Sherlock's heart hurt like some silly little school gir—school. School! Sherlock leapt to his feet, rushing to the coat rack.

Sylvia had been a residential professor, so who did she know? Students! Moriarty had been after one of her _students_. Obvious! Obvious! Who was the one person he knew who would have been a student at St. Bart's at the time she would've been a professor?

John.

* * *

Oh man...look at Sherlock go! I just love the way his foul little mind works :)

**Reviews help Sherlock solve cases faster! It's a proven statement of fact!**


	5. About Him

**Title**: Out of the Night that Covers Me

**Author**: Aima D. Duragon

**Warnings**: future slash (Sherlock/John)

**Spoilers**: Seasons 1 & 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. If I did then I wouldn't have to write this story to satisfy my Johnlock fantasies.

**A/N**: Woo another update!

My beta, as of now, hasn't seen season 2 of Sherlock so I decided not to spoil it for her by having her read this. That being said, all mistakes are entirely my own!

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

It had been easy enough to hack into St. Bart's old student record files once Sherlock had been able to find a capable computer. He doubted the young woman he'd procured it from would be missing it seeing as she was currently occupied with snogging the man she'd been making odd sexual gestures at for the last half hour. Really, it was beyond revolting. They were in public for God's sake.

The smell of burnt coffee and wasted breath filled Sherlock's nose, and he pulled his scarf up to filter it out. He placed two fingers on the trackpad, scrolling down through the list of minds that Sylvia had tutored. Admittedly, there was a significant number. Maybe he'd jumped to his conclusion too early. Maybe he'd—and then his fingers froze. The bright screen seemed to glare up at him, harshly illuminating the exact three words he hadn't wanted to see: John Haymish Watson. Sherlock's breath caught in the back of his throat, and he let the scarf fall. He'd never quite understood before why it was that people were not allowed to participate in cases where they had a connection to the victim, but he certainly understood it now. His mind was growing foggy, swelling with unbidden thoughts that had no basis in fact or observation. Sherlock double clicked on John's name, and watched as the file sprang up to fill the screen.

John had been in two residential classes of Sylvia's, both of which he'd done extraordinarily well in. He'd later moved on to become her teaching assistant. That meant they had been close—closer, at least, than she'd probably been to her other students. It wouldn't be unreasonable to conclude that she would've been able to convince him to—NO! Sherlock slammed the laptop shut, and sprang up from the couch.

The snogging couple jumped, both their heads snapping to goggle up at him with flushed cheeks and swollen lips. The woman then noticed the abandoned laptop and began yelling expletives at him, but Sherlock couldn't be bothered to listen. He couldn't breathe in here—he needed to get out. Sherlock darted for the door, practically slamming his body against it in his hurry to be out on the street. The cool morning air hit him with a wave of clarity, but it didn't last long. The thoughts from the coffee shop seemed to follow right behind, and in a moment's hesitation, they stormed him once more. Sherlock propelled himself down the street, his legs automatically steering him back to his flat.

It was impossible. That letter to Sylvia had been written five years ago. _Five_. Five years ago, John had been training in the army, preparing to go to Afghanistan. Five years ago, Moriarty hadn't even known who John Watson was! This was a coincidence. It had to be.

He just needed to wait. A few more hours and he'd have another body and another pool of evidence. Just a few more hours.

**_~xXx~_**

This time the parcel came when he was in the shower. He couldn't have been in the bathroom for more than ten minutes—just long enough to rinse and shave—but nevertheless, when he exited there it was sitting in his entryway. The package itself was the same thick yellowed envelope, baring nothing but the smooth elongated handwriting on the front that spelled out _Sherlock Holmes_. Sherlock opened it without further inspection, and pulled out a leather journal. One quick look over told him that everything about it was the same as the previous—color, make, model, year. Moriarty had been meticulous, as usual.

He pushed the cover back, thumbing quickly past the first couple pages to where his inscription was waiting. Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly as they began to scour the words.

_My dear, dear, Sherlock. You've figured out the connection by now, haven't you? I hope so—the letter my loyal messenger left in Ms. Yaskoff's file should've made it painfully obvious. I could've toyed with you a bit more, I know, but this makes it sooooo much better. The game wouldn't be as amusing…if you didn't _know_. But I won't say it here, just in case grief has spoiled my fun and made you dull. _

_You see why it would make it more entertaining for me though, don't you? The idea of it? All those testy little emotions twisting in your gut, contorting that pretty face of yours into an expression I could peel away like the skin of an apple. Oh, but wait, I've forgotten…you consider yourself the sociopath in this relationship of ours. Tell me, how's that working out for you, Sherlock? How far have you fallen?_

_ I'm going to go ahead and reassure you now that there is no point in trying to figure out who the next victims will be. They're already dead, so you might as well give yourself the rare pleasure of surprise. _

_ You'll find the next body at 4576 Anlaby Rd at 7pm. If you go early, you're dead. Got it?_

_Eternally yours,_

_ Jim_

Sherlock briefly flicked through the remaining pages, confirming his expectation that they would be blank. He placed the journal down next to the previous one and checked his watch. 7pm—that was more than two hours away. Two hours was ages. Why did Moriarty need him to wait?

The detective threw himself down in his chair, glowering. He arched his body, reaching down and grabbing his violin from the floor and pulling it up into his lap. His fingers plucked at the strings, and Sherlock frowned as the sour C string note wavered and fell flat. He twisted the tuning peg until the note finally slipped into key.

7pm.

Sherlock checked his watch once more. It had been 46 seconds. Teeth clenching together, Sherlock raked his fingers across the violin once more. This was going to be the longest two hours of his life.

Moriarty was taunting him. From the grave, the bloody bastard was still taunting him. Sherlock had half the mind to make a trip to the morgue and introduce Moriarty's body to his riding crop. It was a stupid notion though, he knew. His adversary's corpse—well beaten or not—had nothing to do with the portion of his mind that still lingered in the world. And linger it did. Sherlock had to admit, Moriarty's plan was a web well spun, and the detective had somehow gotten himself entangled in it without even realizing.

_How far have you fallen_?

Sherlock had recognized the jab immediately—a direct and rather obvious reference to one of their more cryptic meetings.

_I want to solve the problem. Our problem. The Final Problem. It's going to start very soon, Sherlock. The Fall. But don't be scared. Falling is just like flying, except with a more permanent destination_.

But Sherlock hadn't fallen. And Moriarty would've written to him knowing that, so why the allusion?

_I'm saving up for something special. No no no no. If you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn…the _heart_ out of you._

The heart. Sherlock hummed.

_This is about him, isn't it?_

The detective's heart gave another one of those strange fluttering twinges. John. He really shouldn't be thinking about John right now. He told himself that he wouldn't until he was able to examine the next body. Thoughts of John were too muddled with questions now to give him a clear picture of what he needed to see. But the memories bombarded him, ramming against the doors of his mind and refusing to be turned away. There had been a conversation between them, just before they'd met Irene…

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed from the doorway of the living room. "Where's John?"

Mrs. Hudson appeared at the foot of the stairwell, wearing one of the dresses Sherlock knew she thought flattered her. She was going to see Mr. Chatterjee down at Speedy's again. Sherlock hadn't met him yet, but he was quite curious as to why Mrs. Hudson always returned smelling like two women instead of just one. "Isn't he up there with you, dear?"

"No! Don't you think I would've—"

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" John called down from somewhere upstairs. "I'm up here! In my room!"

Sherlock jumped, his feet moving him out of the living room and up the stairs two at a time. He stormed into John's room where he found his flatmate perched on the edge of his bed, changing his socks. Sherlock briefly noted that the cuffs of his jeans were drenched and muddied, and a glance out the window told him that it was currently raining.

"You went out." Sherlock stated flatly.

John looked up at him, his expression annoyingly blank. "Noticed, did you?"

"Of course I did. Why wouldn't I?"

"You usually don't."

"John," Sherlock stepped forward, aware that the action brought him to a position bordering on looming, "was I not perfectly clear earlier when I told you that I don't want us going out separately?"

John finished pulling on his second dry sock and got to his feet with a huff. Sherlock knew that this gesture had been meant to make the detective step back. It didn't. "Sherlock," John said, glaring up at him and stubbornly holding his ground, "all I did was go out to meet Sarah for coffee."

"I could've had coffee."

"I don't—" John paused, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I've told you before that you're not allowed to join in on my dates with Sarah. They're called _boundaries_, Sherlock." Sighing, John sidestepped and brushed past him, aiming for the door, but Sherlock's hand caught his arm and yanked him back.

"John," Sherlock said sternly, staring intently down at the doctor. He could see every bit of John then—the small droplets of water clinging to the tips of his hair, the shimmering film of mist that coated his skin, the dark sapphire of his irises flecked with bits of green and gold.

John didn't bother to struggle against him, though Sherlock knew his grip was probably painful. "This is about him, isn't it?"

They both knew who 'him' was. Moriarty. Their first meeting with the consulting criminal a couple short weeks ago had left them both oddly flustered. Sherlock had found this particularly strange, as he wasn't prone to inclinations of discountenance. But something about seeing John standing there, on the upwards of ten pounds of Semtex strapped to his body, had left a bitter taste in Sherlock's mouth. He hadn't liked it. The vulnerability. It hit too close to home. John would've never been abducted if Sherlock had just been there to protect him, and that knowledge was as painful as it was real.

When Sherlock didn't answer, John continued, though his voice was much gentler this time. "Sherlock, we can't let him do this to us—we can't let him invade our lives like this. It's what he wants. He wants to get in your head. Didn't you listen to what he said?"

"Didn't you?" Sherlock threw back, his eyes narrowing. "He knows now, John. He _knows_."

"Knows what?"

"That he can use you to get to me!"

John scoffed, shaking his head. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I know what he said—I know it word for word," Sherlock hissed. "He said he would burn the heart out of me. To which I replied that I had been reliably informed I didn't have one. And since you were obviously paying our conversation such rapt attention, would you care to finish it off with the final line?"

For the first time since Sherlock had entered the room, John seemed to really look at him. His mouth pressed into a thin line and instead of pulling against Sherlock's hold, he leaned into it. It was only then that Sherlock realized how close they were—how he could feel the damp heat of John's skin beneath his jumper, and feel the firmness of his body pressed so snuggly against his own. It gave Sherlock an odd sort of tingling sensation just beneath his ears, but he shook it away as he would a pestering fly.

"What did he say, John?" Sherlock repeated, his voice dropping to a low rumble.

"He said that you both knew that wasn't quite true." An undeniable shudder wracked John's body, though it was quite warm in the room. "But it doesn't matter, Sherlock," he whispered. "You've said yourself that—"

"It doesn't matter what I said, it matters what _he thinks_. And now, because of you, Moriarty _thinks_ I have a heart. Do you have any idea what that means?"

"Because of me? How does that—"

"It means that our partnership has become a liability! And I can't afford any liabilities in my line of work, John! I can't afford to be compromised!" Sherlock released his hold on the doctor and spun violently on his heel. He couldn't look at the other man anymore—not with his heart pounding this hard and his skin still tingling under his ears.

The following silence stretched on until it seemed to suck all the oxygen from the air. Sherlock drew in a shuddering breath, only to find it stale in his lungs. This was why he'd refused to take this room—the air was so easily dissipated here. Something about the circulation, or the placing of the vents perhaps. Sherlock didn't know. He didn't care. He just didn't want to be in it any more. John had almost died, and he couldn't breathe!

"What're you saying?" John asked, his voice breaking through the quiet like the cool hum of a cello. "Are you saying…that you want me to leave?"

"I'm saying—" Sherlock broke off, the words flying through his mind faster than his lips could form them. He shook himself once more, clasping his hands behind his back and forcing his body to settle. "I'm saying that I don't want you going out for coffee without me anymore."

"Sherlock—"

"I really don't see how I could be any more clear about it."

John appeared in front of him then, his brows pulled tighter than ever. "You know that I can't do that. Sarah and I need—"

"Oh, forget Sarah," Sherlock whirled back around, gesturing cholerically. "She doesn't even like you."

"Sherlock," John warned. "Don't."

"What kind of a girlfriend makes her boyfriend sleep on the sofa? A lesbian one, that's what kind."

"Sarah is straight!"

"Oh, right, and Mycroft is a magical unicorn that wants to save the world with the power of friendship. Please, John, don't be daft. I know a closeted lesbian when I see one."

"Why d'you…" John gave an acerbic laugh, his gaze dropping to the ground. "Why do you have to ruin everything? My whole life revolves around you, Sherlock. You text, and I come running. Doesn't matter where I am or who I'm with. Do you know how that makes me feel? Do you know how that makes me _look_?"

Unable to stand it any longer, Sherlock allowed himself to turn back to face the other man. He wrinkled his nose, wanting to ask several questions but trying to sort through them all and settle on one. He finally decided on, "What does it matter?"

Another laugh, harsher and more brittle this time. "That's the sad part. It really doesn't matter to me at all. I know that there's no one else out there like you, and to be able to be a part of what you do…to be a part of your world…" John drifted off, his expression falling into a desperate sort of blankness.

"What?" Sherlock asked, needing to know yet somehow dreading the answer.

John smiled then, softly, with just the barest hint of lift at the edges of his lips. "I would die for you, and it doesn't even matter to me that I don't think you'd do the same. It doesn't even matter that I wouldn't _want_ you to save me if it came down to it, if it was a decision between your life and mine. That makes me something of a lunatic, doesn't it?"

The detective frowned, taking in John's form and posture and everything it could possibly imply in one sweeping look. "Perhaps," Sherlock said slowly. "But it also makes you _my_ lunatic."

John's eyes snapped back up, his whole body going abruptly still. And Sherlock could feel his body doing the same, and that annoying tingling was beginning to spread down his neck into his chest. Something strange was happening to him—something he'd never experienced before. "Sherlock…" John leaned forward, his stare rooting Sherlock in the reality of the moment. And then his eyes dropped, just a fraction, his pale lashes fluttering for a lingering second before they rose once more.

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson called, and the two men sprang apart like the space between them had been on fire. "You've got another one!"

Sherlock's nails plucked at the strings of his violin as the memory faded. That had been the evening before the boomerang case—the evening before he'd met the woman. _The_ woman. The one who'd brought to the surface things that he'd long kept dormant.

Grimacing, Sherlock checked his watch once more. 6:38. Not a moment later, the detective was on his feet and rushing out the door to hail a cab.

* * *

Off to the next body...I wonder who he'll find this time? :)

**Reviews help Sherlock solve cases faster! It's a proven statement of fact!**


	6. Yin and Yang

**Title**: Out of the Night that Covers Me

**Author**: Aima D. Duragon

**Warnings**: future slash (Sherlock/John)

**Spoilers**: Seasons 1 & 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. If I did then I wouldn't have to write this story to satisfy my Johnlock fantasies.

**A/N**: Gah! I'm sorry I didn't get to post yesterday! Spring forward never treats me well...I sort of hate it with every fiber of my being. And besides that, this chapter was particularly hard to write (damn you Irene!). Anywaaaaaaaay thanks once again to my lovely reviewers and I swear I'll get back to you this time round! The hectic chaos that came with February seems to have finally let me be.

My beta, as of now, hasn't seen season 2 of Sherlock so I decided not to spoil it for her by having her read this. That being said, all mistakes are entirely my own!

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

Construction and several bothersome detours coupled with a lackluster cabbie put Sherlock in front of 4576 Anlaby Rd. at precisely 7:13. He was late. Sherlock _hated_ being late.

Pushing his frustration down, the detective made his way towards a rundown paper mill. It was the only building on the block, and—inconveniently—it was one that he recognized.

_Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help_.

Sherlock pulled open the heavy iron door, listening as the metallic sound bounced across the maze of tin and cement. He paused after his first step over the threshold, allowing the sound of his entrance to die around him. He listened intently, his senses honing in on finding another presence in the large room. Fortunately enough, there was nothing. He expected that, as before, Moriarty's henchman had dumped the body and hightailed it back to the wretched hole from whence he came. Either that or he was sitting with his sniper rifle in hand, his crosshairs hovering just over Sherlock's heart.

Deciding that neither scenario really pertained to his main goal, Sherlock began making his way farther into the mill. The smell was unwaveringly putrid—even worse now that the humidity of summer held the stench in the air like a thick cloud. Why Irene would've chosen to bring John here, of all places, was beyond him. Maybe because it was so unlike her. Or maybe it was because she'd truly had nowhere else to go.

_You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?_

_ At him. He never replies._

_ No, Sherlock always replies. To everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word._

Sherlock began making his way up a metal staircase, his feet subconsciously drawing him to the very spot where he'd first heard the two conversing. Statistically he knew it was a horrible place to start. The building was quite large and there was an abundance of suitable rooms in which a body could be stashed, but something was telling him that he had to start there….at that place—in that hall. He'd heard something there that he hadn't quite worked through yet.

_You jealous?_

_ We're not a couple._

_ Yes you are. There. "I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."_

He was standing now in the exact spot he had stood before, when he first heard the sound of Irene's voice and thought his heart would burst through his chest. He was standing in the exact spot where he'd looked at the screen of his phone and reality had hit him across the face so hard that his head had spun. He'd heard the words, playing like a record heard through earmuffs, but he hadn't paid them any attention. Frowning, Sherlock continued forward and into the open space of the hall. This—he looked around—this was where John had been standing. And then he saw it. There on the floor, not ten feet away, was an arrow painted in blood.

Sherlock ran over to it, and as he drew near, the dim light gave way to another arrow. And another. The muscles in Sherlock's legs sprang to life as he took off down the corridor, tearing past the arrows and following them as they wove him through the seemingly endless maze of cement. His lungs burned as he drew in the rancid air and the space just beneath his ribs began to pulse with a stabbing pain, but he pushed through it.

The arrows came to an abrupt end just outside a white door, marked with a large red X. Taking a few moments to catch his breath, Sherlock stared at the two stark lines of blood. They were still quite vibrant, meaning that the liquid hadn't been exposed to oxygen for long. It had been painted under an hour ago. The lines were clean as well—obviously painted with a brush instead of fingers. Perhaps this puppet didn't like getting his hands dirty either.

Satisfied that he'd seen all he needed, Sherlock pushed the door open and slipped into the room. It was a small, barren space, with cement floors and a long rectangular window that let in a grey film of light. There was a broom closet in the left corner, also markedly barren. Finally, the detective let his eyes slip to the ground. What awaited him was not what he expected.

There were two bodies. Two. When there should've only been one.

Both were laid out exactly as Sylvia's had been: laying face up on a tarp with their limbs spread, and their eyes wide and staring. Sherlock shifted closer, his nerves twittering beneath his skin. The victims were two men this time—one Caucasian, and one Middle Eastern—both dressed in their country's respective military dress. Britain and Afghanistan.

_Afghanistan or Iraq?_

Sherlock shook himself, willing his mind to focus. He noticed a small piece of paper tacked to the Afghan man's jacket, fluttering like a feather in the still air. Sherlock swooped forward and ripped it off, his eyes running over the intimately familiar writing.

_Ah, Sherlock. You remember how changeable I am, don't you? Don't worry, you'll still get that body I promised tomorrow, but these two really go best as a pair. Sort of a yin and yang thing—can't have one without the other. You'll understand soon._

_ Jim_

Snorting, the detective stuffed the note into his pocket and bent his knees to hover over the Afghan man. He'd been shot in almost precisely the same place Sylvia had—left side of the chest, just beneath the fourth rib. Sherlock thumbed the bullet hole in his jacket thoughtfully. The shot had been fired from 500 metres, minimum. Moriarty's puppet was starting to show off now.

He was a slender sort of man, with gaunt hollow cheeks that were blanketed with a thick matted beard. After a few sweeps of his other features, the man's occupation wasn't difficult to identify. His hands still reeked of gunpowder and oil, and the wrinkles around his left eye were deeper and more prominent than that of the right, as was ought to happen after peering through a scope for extended periods of time. A sniper. A good one too, judging by his age—most snipers didn't stay alive long in the heat of combat. But why would Moriarty have his henchman travel all the way to Afghanistan just to shoot one of their snipers?

Finding nothing else of interest on the Afghan's body, Sherlock moved over to the Brit. The man was of average height and weight, with sandy brown hair and green eyes. It was immediately apparent that he hadn't been an ordinary foot soldier—a patch in the form of a red cross on his left sleeve marked him as a nurse. Same fatal gunshot wound. And for the first time, the detective found himself wondering why he placed the shot in the chest. After all, most snipers preferred a shot to the head when they could afford it, and this sniper obviously had the skill to achieve such a shot. So why the chest? Why risk his victim surviving? Shaking the questions away, Sherlock fingered the collar of the man's shirt and felt his fingers slide against a ribbed chain.

His brows furrowed as he pulled the man's dog tags out from under his shirt. This was an interesting turn—the fact that the puppet had left identification on this man and none of the others. He'd wanted Sherlock to know who he was.

He ran the pad of his thumb over the blood-smeared disc, pulling it close so that he could make out the inscription. Bill Murray. Sherlock frowned. Bill Murray—he knew that name. Where did he know that name from?

_Met up with Bill Murray. Not the film star. He was the nurse who saved my life when I was shot. He's got married._

John's blog. He'd read the name in John's blog.

The dog tags fell from Sherlock's fingers as he sprang to his feet, his eyes darting frantically between the two men. Yin and yang. The man who killed, and the man who healed. The man who'd shot John, and the man who'd saved him.

But…how…?

Pockets. He'd forgotten to check the Afghan's trouser pockets. Sweeping forward, Sherlock pressed his hand into the man's left pocket. Nothing. Then the right, and he found his fingers sliding over the edge of folded paper. He pulled it out quickly and unfolded it. It was in Dari—a language Sherlock wasn't as familiar with as he would've liked—and the parchment was old and the ink was blurred and smeared from handling, but one thing was perfectly clear. There, marked in bold lettering in the bottom left corner was the letter 'M'.

This wasn't possible. This wasn't—

Sherlock started at the sound of a door opening and closing in the distance. Every muscle in his body froze, and the hairs on the back of his neck seemed to stand on end as his ears strained to hear something in the following silence.

"Hello?" the soft voice of a man echoed.

Sherlock glanced around hurriedly, stuffing the Dari letter into his coat pocket. His first instinct was that Moriarty's sniper had returned, but he immediately cast the notion off. A sniper would've been more discreet. Maybe a homeless person then? It didn't really matter—he couldn't risk being seen. The sound of footsteps traveling up metal stairs rang down the hall. Sherlock glanced desperately at the window—not enough time to open it, much less figure out if there was a safe place to land below. His eyes whipped back over to the entryway. He couldn't risk venturing out into the open hall either. Only one option left then. As swiftly and silently as he could manage, Sherlock darted to the side, propelling himself towards the broom closet.

"Mycroft? Where are you?" the voice sounded again, just as Sherlock was about to pull the door shut.

His heart stopped. John.

John was here? Why would John be here?

"Mycr—what the bloody hell?" There was a pause. "What the hell is the paint for? Couldn't you just—" but then John trailed off, most likely in a string of curses.

Paint. The arrows. But then that would lead him here. Sherlock's eyes snapped to the bodies. But he didn't have time—he didn't have time to move them! Blood racing, the detective wrapped his fingers around the steel handle and pulled the door shut, leaving the barest sliver of a crack through which he could peer.

The door to the room slammed open. "My…" John's voice cracked, "…croft." Silence seemed to engulf him, and Sherlock could somehow feel every atom in his body vibrating like an electric current. John moved forward. One step, then two. Or had it been three? The rhythm of his steps was off.

"Oh, God."

And finally Sherlock could see him. He seemed…smaller than before—the line of his shoulders hunched and drawn in, his bad leg held at a strange angle. But even so, just to see him there, real and alive and still breathing made Sherlock's chest ache.

John stumbled forward and fell to his knees, his hands hovering over Bill's feet. "This isn't happening. This isn't happening," he whispered, taking in shallow uneven breaths. "You're dreaming, John. Wake up. Oh, God, please let me be dreaming."

Sherlock turned away—he couldn't stand to see that look on John's face anymore. Why would John be here? Why? Mycroft would never bring him to a place like this. So had the puppet led him here somehow—picked him up the way same Mycroft always did perhaps? Sherlock pushed the notion away, somehow unable to bear the thought of John being anywhere near one of Moriarty's deranged psychopath lackeys. But the image of John, wired up to the neck in Semtex, came upon him unbidden.

There was something very wrong about this. John. John was the connection. Obvious. But why?

_Find out what it means_.

The statement was too vague. What it meant to who? To Sherlock? To Moriarty? To John? There was no direction in the instruction. And Moriarty had done that on purpose—Sherlock knew he had. Yet even so….the letters…the letters were the key. And Sherlock knew what they meant. He _knew_…

_Find out what it means_.

"Hello?" John's shaken voice broke through the haze of Sherlock's mind. "Greg? Yeah, it's John." Sherlock turned back, and saw John with his mobile pressed to his ear. His hand was trembling, and his nails had been bitten back nearly past the skin. "Look, I—I found something. _Someone_." There was a stagnant pause, and John's other hand moved to pinch the bridge of his nose. "No. No, not him. His grave is fine. It's someone else—um—two someone else's. They've both been…shot." Another pause. "The abandoned paper mill on Anlaby. Right. Yes. Alright, see you." John hung up the phone and placed it back in his pocket. Then not a moment later, he collapsed forward, his forehead pressing against the cement and his fingers threading through his hair.

Sobs began to wrack him, deep and pained, and they seemed to cause the very walls to shudder. Sherlock couldn't say that he'd heard John ever cry before, and he certainly wished he couldn't hear it now. The sound of it made his chest tighten, as if he couldn't pull air into his lungs quite as easily as before. And in that moment he wanted nothing more to barge out of that closet and pull John to his feet and drag him from the room and back to their flat. Their warm, safe flat that smelled of burnt chemicals and tea and John. Sherlock inhaled deeply, but all he could smell was the sulfur dioxide used to bleach the paper. He felt suddenly and immediately sick.

Sherlock slid away from the door, farther back into the darkness of the closet, but he couldn't escape the sound of John's choked cries. It wasn't supposed to be like this. John was supposed to be spared this kind of agony—be free of the death and destruction that followed in Sherlock's wake. Yet here he was, kneeling at the feet of the man who had saved his life. No one deserved this, especially not John. And Sherlock found there was no one else to blame but himself.

To make matters worse, the detective had rendered himself utterly useless. All he could do was sit here and watch as John's pain consumed him. He wondered if this was what Irene had felt after she'd faked her death. He wondered if she had had to sit and watch people she loved writhe in agony, knowing there was nothing she could do.

_Why don't we ever talk about her?_

No. No no no no. This was not happening. He wasn't going to do this _now_.

_It's alright, you know…to talk about the people you cared about after they're gone. I know…I know that you felt something for her, even if you don't know what that something was_.

Sherlock pressed his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes, willing the thoughts away. They were whirring through his mind like a raging storm, threatening to upset the precarious balance of his calm. He couldn't do this—not here. Not with the sound of John's broken voice sliding through his ears and causing his bones to rattle. Not here. Not now.

"Sherlock," John sounded tired, "are you listening to me?"

Sherlock glanced up at him from his chair. Glowering, he drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his nightgown around him like a cocoon. "Of course I am, John. If I could turn off my hearing at will, I would've done it some time ago."

John gave one of his deep sighs—the kind that usually gave Sherlock a strange sort of pang in his stomach, but somehow the effect escaped him this time. "Sherlock…it's been _months_ since you last saw her, and you still mope around here like—"

"I do not _mope_." Sherlock snapped.

"Yes, you do, Sherlock. You mope." John shifted in his seat, gingerly rotating his cup of tea back and forth in its saucer. "And usually I don't mind it. I let you do your own thing, and sort out your issues in your own way, but this—this isn't healthy. You've lost weight, and you were already teetering on the edge of skeletal before. You barely sleep. Hell, it's like I've been living with a bloody ghost. You can't keep everything all bottled up inside like this."

Sherlock tore his gaze away from the other man, preferring instead to glare at the wall. "And what about Miss Adler do you suppose I'm keeping bottled up, John?" he asked petulantly. He didn't want to talk about this, and hated that John was insisting otherwise. He'd been avoiding this conversation for a list of very specific—and pointedly private—reasons, and the other man knew as much.

He was angry. It was one of the longest black moods he'd suffered in the past decade, and nothing he did seemed to satiate it. Music didn't help, his experiments were unfulfilling, and there hadn't been a decent case to speak of in weeks. Sherlock could feel his mind rotting away—a train charging full speed at a solid brick wall. Something was _wrong_. He felt off balance, like either side of some inner equation was refusing to equiponderate. Irene was a part of it, he knew, but there was something more to it as well.

_John's blog is HILARIOUS. I think he likes you more than I do. Let's have dinner._

If it had just been Irene, Sherlock would've been able to pull himself out of this lapse weeks ago. But, it wasn't just about her. That text about John—

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, I sat in the same room as you two. You think I didn't see?"

Sherlock's head snapped back, the full fury of his gaze boring into John. "See what?"

John shrank back slightly. "See the way you looked at her."

"What way did I look at her?"

"I don't know." John shook his head, his eyes dropping. "You looked at her…with that look you have."

Sherlock's head quirked, black anger sparking in his chest at John's newfound fondness of vague wording. He'd had quite enough of this. John needed to understand that when he said he didn't want to talk about something, the subject was not to be addressed again.

Sherlock leapt up from his chair and closed the space between he and the doctor with one sweeping step. He pushed John's knees apart and knelt on the floor between them, silently enjoying the way the other man's cup rattled in surprise. John stared at him, eyes wide and dark, and lips pressed firmly together. With a sardonic sort of smirk, Sherlock leaned forward, his hand moving to brush against the base of John's jaw. The detective could feel his pulse like the beat of a hummingbird's wings.

"Was this the look, John?" Sherlock asked, dropping his voice to a low rumbling baritone.

"Sh—Sherlock…what're you—"

Sherlock's hand tightened against John's neck as he leaned in farther. "I want you to tell me. Was _this_ the look?"

John swallowed, and Sherlock was close enough that he could hear the wet sound as it travelled down his throat. "Yes," he said in a breath.

"Then you now know that I am capable producing it without it meaning anything."

The flinch was scarcely noticeable—the barest spasm of muscle and skin—but to Sherlock's fingertips it might as well have been an earthquake. The detective dropped his hand and rose back to his feet, stretching the ligaments of his fingers. He plopped back down in his seat and wrapped his gown back around him. Silence hung between them for a few long minutes before Sherlock heard John stand and retreat upstairs to the solitude of his room. Sherlock didn't want him to leave, but he didn't dare open his mouth to say so.

_I think he likes you more than I do_.

Of all the reasons on his list, that one was at the top. John's attachment to him was becoming dangerous. Moriarty had already used the doctor against him once—he wouldn't allow it again. Sherlock had cut people off before, and he could certainly do it again. Something had to be done about his mood though. He couldn't continue on like this, not if John continued to pry. He needed something to distract him. Work. He needed another case.

Sherlock broke free from the memory with a barely muffled gasp only to have another hit him—with the full force and clarity of a great church bell.

_For the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay_.

_Well I am. Look at us both._

Look. At. Us. Both. That had been an incredibly strange sentence to say in that moment. The implication that they were the same—that they had both been ensnared in a trap they couldn't escape. Irene, a self-proclaimed lesbian, and Three Continents John. They were the prey, and Sherlock, he…he was the trap.

He realized then, why he'd been so upset all those months ago. Not because of the conversation, or because of Irene's text, but because he had subconsciously processed Irene's conversation with John in a way that his conscious mind hadn't been able to at the time.

He hadn't minded Irene's fascination with him—he'd considered it predictably base, but endured it nevertheless if only because he'd found the blankness of her slate annoyingly captivating. He had minded, though, the way she'd made John's fascination sound. How she'd devolved it—how she tainted it. She'd implanted in Sherlock's head, the idea that his presence was not only something John longed for, but also something he was held _captive_ by. In one fell swoop, four small monosyllabic words had destroyed something Sherlock hadn't even realized was dear to him—the notion that, for once, someone actually _liked_ him. That someone liked him for more than his mind and the exciting pace of his life. Sure, those things were a part of it, but he'd wanted more. The whole package—the good and the bad and the twisted ugliness that came with being human—and he'd wanted somebody to be able to _see_ all of it and think it was beautiful. After all…wasn't that what John was for him? John, who should have been so ordinary and so tediously dull, but somehow wasn't.

_Before you say anything, you don't have to worry, Sherlock…I won't ask you about her again_.

That conversation had taken place only a few days before Henry had come to them with the Baskerville case. Baskerville…that first night when—

"John?" Lestrade's voice demanded Sherlock's attention like the crack of a whip. "God…John." Rushed footsteps across pavement, and soft soothing whispers. Sherlock strained to hear what the other man said, but he couldn't make it out. At least Lestrade sounded like he'd come alone.

"Christ." John was obviously trying to keep his voice steady, but Sherlock could hear the soft betraying waver. "Greg, I don't…I was brought here in a car and I just—I found them like this."

"Who brought you here, John? And the car, do you know the make? Model?"

"It—it was a black Jaguar XF I think. No plates. I didn't see the driver."

"Right," Lestrade hoisted John up off the ground, keeping his arm around John's waist and pulling his arm up over his neck. "Let's get you home, alright? I'll get a team up here and we'll be right on the case."

John shook his head. "I knew him, Greg. I _knew_ him. And I couldn't…" John stumbled, his leg nearly collapsing completely, "…I couldn't save him."

"I know, John. I know. None of us could."

**_~xXx~_**

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Phew...that was rough! I actually had to do quite a bit of research for this chapter, but I think it paid off in the end. I was so excited when I read that text that Irene sent about John! I think ASiB tells more about Sherlock and John's relationship than any other episode, if only because Irene's not afraid to point out what they both don't want to admit...

**Reviews help Sherlock solve cases faster! It's a proven statement of fact!**


	7. What Happened in Baskerville

**Title**: Out of the Night that Covers Me

**Author**: Aima D. Duragon

**Warnings**: Slash (Sherlock/John)

**Spoilers**: Seasons 1 & 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. If I did then I wouldn't have to write this story to satisfy my Johnlock fantasies.

**A/N**: So I'm finally back! I think. Ahem, anyway sorry to make you guys wait...shouldn't happen again *dies*

My beta, as of now, hasn't seen season 2 of Sherlock so I decided not to spoil it for her by having her read this. That being said, all mistakes are entirely my own!

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

After Lestrade and John left the building, Sherlock estimated there would be roughly ten minutes before a forensic team arrived on site. Fifteen if he was lucky, and luck didn't seem to be working in his favor this evening. But if he didn't have luck, he would at least have sentiment. Lestrade would have to worry about seeing John safely in a cab before he called Sullivan or one of his other lieutenants, giving Sherlock the crucial moments needed to finish inspecting the bodies and escape the premises undetected.

He ended up receiving eighteen.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he felt so relieved by the smell of fresh air. He snapped up the collar of his coat and repressed the shiver that threatened to race down his spine. Clouds were beginning to gather overhead, bringing with them an unnatural chill. Fortunately, the main street was only a couple blocks away, and Sherlock was able to hail a cab within a few minutes of reaching it.

The car screeched to a stop, and the detective practically threw himself into the back seat. His head hurt—his temples pounding as his heart hammered blood though his brain.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked.

"Wellington Park," Sherlock snapped, using a tone that made it quite clear that he didn't want to be talked to on the way there.

Nodding, the cabbie turned his eyes back to the road and pulled the car back into traffic. A few minutes of blissful silence passed before Sherlock finally allowed himself to settle. He leaned into the door and pressed his forehead against the cool glass, willing it to soothe his frenzied nerves. Small droplets of rain began to patter against the window, but they might as well have been gunshots. Snarling, Sherlock rolled back towards the middle, stuffing his hands in his pockets and burrowing himself deeper into the warmth of his coat. His fingers curled, brushing against the folded Dari letter, and the detective felt his pulse quicken.

John. The connection was John. For some reason, Moriarty was killing off a particular subset of people who had been involved in his life in some significant way—a subset which happened to include people Moriarty had also known.

_Find out what it means_.

But Sherlock already knew what it meant. He _knew_, but he didn't dare allow the thought to fully form in his mind. He couldn't. It was dangerous…too dangerous.

He knew he should be examining the Dari letter right now—dissecting everything he could from the paper and ink, and piecing together the message from what few words he decipher—but he couldn't bring himself to pull it from his pocket. The letter would make his theory real, and Sherlock couldn't afford for it to be real right now.

John. The connection was John.

But there was something else he still needed to focus on. The other thing…the other thing with John was still distracting him, and he couldn't bear the burden of being distracted anymore. Moriarty had given him three days. Three. Tomorrow was the last day, and Sherlock needed to be at the top of his game. He needed to figure this out _now_.

Baskerville. Something had happened in Baskerville…

_Mycroft's name literally opens doors_.

No. Fast forward.

_Can we not do this this time? You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool._

The edges of Sherlock's lips twitched up in humor. Fast forward.

_Just…just a minute_. John leaned forward in his chair, the light from the fire making his hair look like a halo of golden silk. _You saw what?_

Fast forward.

_And why would you listen to me? I'm just your—_

Sherlock felt himself stiffen. Fast forward.

_Funny doesn't suit you. Stick to ice_.

Too far. There was something before this—something important. Rewind.

_Sherlock…no. Please, God, no_.

Stop. Zoom in. This memory was a bit…fuzzier than the others. For good reason, he supposed, as he had meant for it to be that way. John had stormed out of the hotel lobby after the bloody friend comment, leaving Sherlock quite alone to dwell with his thoughts, and even more importantly, his fear. Fear was not something he dealt with often, especially not when it was accompanied by stillness and silence. Usually the rare bursts of fear he experienced were a direct reaction to a shock of adrenaline pumping through his system during a chase or a shootout…or seeing John in a vest made of Semtex. But there, sitting in front of the fire with nothing but a glass of brandy and his memory, Sherlock remembered why he'd allowed himself to become a victim of substances in his youth.

He hadn't needed any further incentive. He'd made sure to send John a text that would both take him a while to deal with and leave him exhausted afterwards (women tended to have that sort of effect on John). That, coupled with the fact that John had displayed a good number of the signals he usually gave off when he was angry, left Sherlock believing that he would have the rest of the evening to himself.

He'd been wrong.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his back firmly against the cab seat. The memory seemed so distant—so unfocused. It was just a blur of random images and warm colors. He needed to find something to latch onto; a proverbial torch to lead him through the dark moments.

_Delete this, Sherlock. I want you to delete it, do you—_

Sherlock's head jerked as he batted the words away. He wouldn't have deleted it if it was about John. Not really. If it was about John, he could find it again. Sherlock hunched his shoulders, shrinking lower into his jacket. He remembered a table, and a hot sour smell…

A rush of heroin settled over him like a warm blanket. He felt his limbs relax, and they seemed to stretch on endlessly as he settled back in his chair, feeling lighter than air. And the numbness—oh the blissful numbness—it coated his brain, making it sticky and slow. Normal. This was what it was like to be normal. To be wonderfully unaware of anything and everything and just sit and _be_.

Gone now were the fears of the hound and the terrors of the night. Gone now were the feelings of distress and loss of calm. Gone, gone, all gone. Floating away like smoke from a candle. Light. He felt so light, like he could fly if he wanted to. Sherlock had understood why John had made him stop smoking cigarettes, and stop snorting cocaine, but this…where was the harm in this? Wouldn't John like to see him slow down? Couldn't he understand that sometimes this was better? And Sherlock was always so careful. He was always so careful with how much he used…

An indiscernible amount of time passed before a door opened and closed somewhere in the distance.

"Well, Henry's psychologist is a dead end now. I think I was getting somewhere before we were interrupted, but—Sherlock? Sherlock…no. Please, God, no."

Sherlock smiled. That was John's voice. He liked John's voice, how brutally honest it always was.

Then, hands were on him. Sherlock didn't realize he'd closed his eyes until they opened to glare at the doctor as he untied the tourniquet around his left arm. John's voice he liked—his hands, not so much.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounding slow and strangely muffled.

"Where did you get these?" John picked up the spoon, syringe, and cloth, waving them in front of Sherlock's face.

The detective batted the utensils away. "I work at a hospital and happen to have a kitchen. Really, John—"

"The heroin, Sherlock! Where'd you get the heroin?"

"What does it matter?"

"It matters!" John sprang to his feet, marching over to the trash and throwing the heroin supplies in. They slammed into the bottom of the can with a loud metallic clang. "It matters that I make sure you can't get any from there again!"

Sherlock snorted, leaning his head back and closing his eyes once more. The room felt like it was moving, swaying back and forth beneath him like a great ship.

"How much did you take?"

Sherlock sighed, tilting his head back and forth against the rocking of the room. "Enough."

He heard the muffled thud of John's footsteps as he neared the chair once more. "Jesus, you're still tripping aren't you."

"John," Sherlock groaned irately, arching his back against the chair. He didn't want to hear John talking to him like this anymore. All he wanted was the calm…the peace.

"Sherlock," warmth enveloped the detective's face, and he felt the firm pressure of fingers against his pulse. "I need you to open your eyes. Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock shook his petulantly. He liked this darkness—it seemed so much farther away from the reality behind his closed lids.

"Sherlock," John said, and this time the detective could hear the note of warning in his voice.

Clenching his teeth together, Sherlock forced one eye open, then the other. Golden candlelight and John's stretched worried face flooded his senses, and for a moment he almost sank back into the dark, but John's hands held him steady.

John tilted his head, leaning in close. "Can you see alright?" he asked, and Sherlock could smell hints of Pinot Noir on his breath. The scent traveled up his nostrils and sank down his throat, and Sherlock felt his temper spark.

"So how was the psychologist?" Sherlock questioned. He stared hard at John's face, but his eyes wouldn't quite focus—he couldn't discern his expression.

John blew out a breath through his nose. "A dead end," he replied briskly. "Alright, Sherlock, your pulse—"

"You drank with her?"

"What? What does that matter? I was trying to get her to open up—to help _you_ out if I might add."

Sherlock frowned. "You promised you wouldn't drink without me."

"You're the one who told me to go! And anyway, I never promised—"

"You did."

"Sherlock," John growled. "Stop it. I'm not going to argue with you while you're high. Now, you need to get to bed, alright? Come on. Up." The doctor's hands moved lower in attempt to lift him, but Sherlock was dead weight beneath him. John gave a frustrated hiss. "Sherlock," he berated, "you could at least make an effort to stand."

Sherlock's response came in the form of a derisive snort. He was growing tired of this—of John's hands being where they shouldn't, trying to make him do things he didn't want to do. Yes, he'd had quite enough of all that. Hissing, the detective grabbed John's hands and forced them to his sides.

"Sherlock!" John struggled, but Sherlock sat up in his chair and pressed himself against the doctor like a splint. "Sherlock, let me go!"

Ignoring him, Sherlock pressed his forehead into the curve of John's neck and closed his eyes once more. This…this was good. Warm. John's skin smelled of cold wind, pine, and salt. Yes, this was…

"Sherlock, stop messing around." John's voice rumbled, and Sherlock could feel his vocal cords as they vibrated. It sent a pleasant sort of hum through his body, sort of like the feeling he sometimes got when he pulled his bow across the G string on his violin. Sherlock arched his neck, aching to feel more of the soothing hum. He pressed his lips—a part of his body that he knew to have more nerve endings than almost any other—against the warmth of John's skin, and sighed as sharp pleasurable shivers raced across his jaw and down his neck.

John's voice stopped abruptly.

Sherlock hummed, not bothering to articulate that he was displeased by this sudden change.

"S—Sh—Sherlock," John stuttered, his body tensing against the detective. "What are you doing?"

Ah, yes. _That_ felt nice. Why had he never thought of doing this before? John's body was so warm…so sturdy. He felt like a ship being held in place by the weight of an anchor as the stormy sea battered at his sides and the raging wind threatened to blow him off course. He'd always indulged in recreational substances whenever he wanted to escape reality, but this reality—this reality didn't seem like something he should be trying to escape from. There was no fear here—no hound with burning red eyes and fur black as pitch—only the warm comfort of John's body, and the gentle rumble of his voice.

"Sherlock…stop messing around." John struggled to break free. "Stop—ah!" Sherlock felt the doctor's spasm of pain like a bolt of lightning. Within a moment, he was on his feet, his vision spinning and his hands gripping John's arms like a vice.

"Your shoulder?" Sherlock asked.

John winced. "Let go of me, Sherlock."

"Have you been massaging it regularly?"

"Sherlock—"

"Have you?"

"Well I haven't exactly been on leisure lately!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "That's no excuse."

John shook his head, his lips pressing together. "So it's alright for you to abuse your body, but it's not ok for me to abuse mine?"

"Using heroin and getting shot in the shoulder are hardly two circumstances one can equivalate, John."

"How do you still sound so bloody smart when you're high? I swear, Sherlock, you're…" John shook his head, trailing off. He dropped his gaze to the exposed skin of Sherlock's arm, and the detective could feel his breath quicken.

"I'm what?" Sherlock asked, not knowing afterwards whether or not he'd actually spoken.

John sighed, and it sounded like defeat. "You're amazing…and you're going to ruin it—all of it—if you keep going on like this."

John meant the drugs. Of course he meant the drugs. At the moment, though, Sherlock didn't care what he meant. "Take off your shirt and lay down on the bed."

John's eyebrows shot up into his hairline in a blink. He looked up at Sherlock with wide vacant eyes. "Sorry, what?"

"Your shoulder needs tending."

"I'm perfectly capable of tending to it myse—"

"Obviously not," Sherlock interrupted tersely. Growing impatient, the detective traded his grip on John's arms for the hem of his jumper. He gave the material a good hard pull, and found his height advantage allowed him to remove the shirt quite easily. John gasped, grabbing for his jumper but Sherlock flung it across the room.

"Sherlock!" John berated, glaring up at him. "What the hell is your problem?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I won't have one as soon as you get on the bed."

"You're _not_ touching my scar. And it's you who should be in bed, not me."

"Fine. I'll get in if you agree to join me."

"That's not—" John's cheeks went abruptly pink, though for once Sherlock couldn't tell whether it was because of embarrassment or annoyance. With a deep set frown, the doctor took a deep breath before continuing, "If I give you five minutes, will you promise me that you'll stay in bed and at least attempt to sleep?"

Sherlock rolled his tongue against the roof of his mouth, weighing his options. "John, you know I don't like to—"

"Sleep while you're on a case, yes I know, hence why we're making a deal."

Interesting. Had Sherlock's mind been working at its usual speed, he probably could've come up with at least ten reasons why such a deal was not worth making. As it was, he couldn't even come up with one. Sherlock's lips quirked. "Fine."

John simply nodded and turned around to face the bed. He ambled over to it slowly, toeing his trainers off before sitting on the edge of the mattress.

Sherlock made his way over to his bag first, stooping down to retrieve the small bottle of lotion he'd procured from the bathroom upon arriving. Lotion in hand, he turned back towards the doctor. His footsteps seemed overly loud as he neared the other man, and John's eyes seemed to be studiously avoiding his own. This bothered Sherlock for a reason he couldn't be bothered to determine.

"Lay back," the detective said, bending to untie and remove his shoes.

John made a strange gagging sort of noise, and Sherlock watched his Adam's apple bob as he scooted himself farther back onto the bed. "Why do I need to lie down?"

"Ease of access."

John made another odd noise, but thankfully didn't argue. He pushed himself even farther back onto the bed, the muscles in his arms straining against his skin as they lowered him gently to the mattress. Sherlock was surprised he hadn't noticed how fit John had kept himself over the past months. His body looked firm and solid, decorated by splashes of the most fascinatingly shaped scars. Sherlock found his eyes scouring them, trying to figure out each one's story. But the scar on his shoulder really went out of its way to shame the others. It was a spidery web of raised skin, stark white against the rest of his chest as it twisted beneath the line of his collar bone like a knot on a tree.

"Sherlock…"

The sound of John's breathless voice broke the detective from his reverie. He met the doctor's eyes, and the peculiar tingle behind his ears hit him like a strike of lightning. Sherlock leaned forward, crawling across the bed before lifting a knee so that he could settle himself over John's waist.

John's fingers flexed as they picked at the loose threads on the comforter. "You do realize what people would say if they walked in on us like this."

Sherlock uncapped the lotion and squeezed a dollop out into his palm. He set the bottle aside and shifted his weight forward. "Nothing they don't already say, I'm sure."

John snorted.

"Now, hold still…this is going to hurt." Sherlock smeared the lotion across John's shoulder and pressed his thumb into the heart of the scar, hard.

John's body arched, a strangled cry pushing past his pursed lips. Sherlock held his thumb down, feeling the muscle tense and coil beneath his touch as he burrowed down into it. Slowly, he began to move, pressing his weight into John's skin. He could feel the torn tissues rippling under his fingertips, and hear how every moment he moved threatened to break the man beneath him.

"You're—you're going on it too hard," John said between gasps.

"You haven't gone on it hard enough. The scar tissue has built up here," he pressed and John bit his lip against another cry. "And here." He pressed again, his eyes immediately snapping to the white arched line of the doctor's neck. It seemed to tremble as John's vocal cords shook.

Sherlock could feel that strange tingling again, just behind his ears. His head felt light and his thoughts fogged, and really, he'd never seen such a neck before. This neck that encased the voice he'd become so fond of—the one that yelled at times, and sounded so softly stern at others, and yet could be as soothing and gentle as a breeze.

Sherlock could feel the final wave of his high cresting over his body, and he couldn't help the shudder that racked him as the blissful fog drifted across his mind. He felt hot—like he was sitting naked in front of a furnace on a sweltering July afternoon. And, by God, that neck. It was mocking him. It knew how badly he wanted it to be his and his alone—for the words it encased to be only spoken to him and for him so that no one else would ever be able to hear. He wanted it so badly it hurt—way down deep inside his chest, accumulating to a pinpoint of pain just below his fourth rib. But no matter how he felt or what he wanted, it was impossible. John's voice could never be his. Not like that. But there was one thing that could be. One word that he could have that belonged to no one else…

"John," Sherlock whispered, leaning forward ever so slightly. "Say my name."

The following silence was too long. "W—what?"

"My name," Sherlock repeated, a little more harshly this time. "I need you to say my name."

"What does that have to do with—"

"Just say it."

John looked at him and swallowed thickly. "Sherlock."

Sherlock allowed his eyes to fall shut. Ah, yes. That word. That one was his. "Again."

"Sherlock…I think my shoulder's fine now. You should probably get off."

That word. Oh, that word! He wanted to consume it—to taste the syllables and feel the shape of John's mouth as he spoke them. Sherlock leaned down even farther, so that his chest was pressed firmly against John's, and buried his face into the crook of the doctor's neck. He inhaled deeply through his nose, overloading his olfactory senses with the smell of John's cologne.

"Again, John," Sherlock commanded, groaning as his words spread heat across the doctor's bared skin.

John's body trembled like a leaf in the wind. "You're high."

"As a kite. Now. Say. It."

"Sherlock..."

The detective hissed as he felt the word tremble against his lips. His breath seemed to be caught in the back of his throat, but he didn't care. He didn't need to breathe as long as the sound of his name was still ringing in his ears and the warmth of John's body was pressed against his own.

Sherlock could feel himself beginning to rock, back and forth along the waves of head that radiated from John's skin. He could feel the doctor's breath like a warm breeze against his ear, and it seemed to quiver ever time Sherlock's body met his own. Sherlock had the strange urge to bite the bared flesh beneath his lips, and turn that breath into a scream.

John's body was practically writhing beneath him now, undulating every time Sherlock's thumb pressed into his shoulder, and relaxing with a shaken breath every time it eased off. And occasionally, when the detective would work through a particularly rough patch of scar tissue, John would groan. The sound of it would send strange shivers from the base of Sherlock's neck down to the tips of his toes. Something was happening here—something that Sherlock couldn't even begin to deduce. This quite that lay between them wasn't normal, mostly because Sherlock was truly present for it. His mind was here in the moment, fully focused on John and this peculiar yet fascinating feeling hovering just behind his ears.

And then he felt it. John stirred and something undeniably hard pressed itself against Sherlock's inner thigh. Two things happened then, almost simultaneously. John's eyes flew open, horrified, and his body moved to buck Sherlock off just as the detective grabbed his wrists and used his weight to push John back down to the bed. The result was a glorious cacophony of friction that left them both panting as they stared at each other, their noses mere inches apart.

"Sherlock," John breathed. "Get off of me."

"John, calm yourself. It's a perfectly normal reaction for a man of your age—"

"Perfectly normal?" John bellowed, his entire face flooding with a deep angry red. "Jesus! Nothing about this is normal, alright? Nothing about _us_ is normal! And I can't—" he broke off, pursing his lips together.

Sherlock stared down at the other man, his body still humming. "You can't what?"

"Nothing."

But it was something, and John was looking _right at him_ and still Sherlock couldn't see it. His mind was too fogged—his senses too hazed by the heroin that still coursed through his veins.

Pause.

Sherlock shifted in the seat of the cab, adamantly trying to ignore the uncomfortable heat that had coiled in the pit of his stomach.

Zoom in.

He couldn't see it then, but he could now. The look. _The_ look. Sherlock could see it so clearly that it hurt. He brought his hand to his chest, pressing his palm down into his sternum as if he could quell the quick pattering of his heart with a single touch. John's face—a myriad of flesh and blood stretched over bone. No one had a face like John. No one had eyes that were so brutally honest and steady, or a mouth that could shape his name and make it sound perfect. And no one could've ever possibly looked at him like _that_.

Love.

John was in love with him. Heavily dilated pupils. Flushed cheeks and ears. Elevated respiration. Redirected blood flow. All tall tale signs of lust, but this wasn't just lust. Sherlock knew this. Sherlock knew, and for the first time in his life, he didn't know _how_ he knew. There was something more in the curve of his mouth, and the line of his brow. And there was something more in the dark forbidden look in his eyes that the detective couldn't help but want to fall in to.

Play.

"Get off of me, Sherlock."

Sherlock did, rolling over to the side of bed as John pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He sat there for a long moment with his back hunched and his fingers digging into the comforter.

"Delete this, Sherlock. I want you to delete it. Do you understand?"

"John…"

"Do you understand?" John snapped, and the air itself seemed to crackle.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course, John."

"And I don't want you taking heroin ever again, do you hear? I catch you one more time and I'm moving out. Are we clear on that?"

Sherlock knew, even in his current state, that his flatmate was bluffing, but even so he replied, "Crystal."

"Good." John rose to his feet, wavering. The detective would've lent a hand to steady him, but under the circumstances he didn't dare move. Finally sound on his feet, John crossed the room and retrieved his jumper from the floor. He slid it over his head and Sherlock watched as the last inches of smooth tanned skin disappeared beneath the thick woolen fabric. "I'll see you in the morning."

And the next thing Sherlock knew, he was gone.

A loud clap of thunder snapped the detective back into the present. Rain was pouring down in angry sheets, slapping against the metal of the car like a drumroll. Sherlock scowled at it, his mind still whirling from what he'd learned.

John was in love with him, and tomorrow was the last day.

This did not bode well. No…this did not bode well at all.

**_~xXx~_**

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Well that was a big chapter huh? Lots of crazy stuff goin on...but it'll all come to a head soon enough! Who do you think the last body will be? :)

**Reviews help Sherlock solve cases faster! It's a proven statement of fact!**


	8. 3am

**Title**: Out of the Night that Covers Me

**Author**: Aima D. Duragon

**Warnings**: Slash (Sherlock/John)

**Spoilers**: Seasons 1 & 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. If I did then I wouldn't have to write this story to satisfy my Johnlock fantasies.

**A/N**: A little more boring than the last chapter...but don't you worry! We're about to get to the exciting part ;)

My beta, as of now, hasn't seen season 2 of Sherlock so I decided not to spoil it for her by having her read this. That being said, all mistakes are entirely my own!

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**_~xXx~_**

3am and Sherlock had an odd sort of relationship. If he thought about it, the detective supposed they could best be described as fair-weather friends. On normal cases, 3am was Sherlock's favorite time to work. Everything was so quiet and still, and there was so much potential in the air that it was suffocating. The streets would be empty, the shops all long closed down, and John would be off asleep somewhere in the flat. It was a silence so complete that the world seemed dead…but Sherlock had never minded death much. Death was what made everything he loved possible. On normal cases, 3am was when everything became clear.

This, however, was not a normal case.

Sherlock's mind was a whirlwind of broken thoughts and desperate logic. He couldn't control it. Every thought ended with a cross airs over John's heart. Every deduction ended with him standing over a tombstone place right next to his own, John's name permanently carved into the cold marble. The horrors his imagination created were endless. It was like he was drowning in them—frantically trying to swim upwards even as the current towed him down even further.

_Find out what it means._

But the times when he did break the surface were almost worse. Everything seemed to turn in on itself, twisting into a deformed backwards reflection. John holding the gun, his sights lined up with Sherlock's chest. He was saying something, but the detective couldn't hear.

_Find out what it means._

John, his teeth bared as his finger squeezed the trigger and—NO!

Sherlock flung himself up out of his chair and began pacing back and forth across the small room. This was no good! This wasn't the problem he needed to solve! He needed…he needed to figure out who the puppet was—how he thought and how he acted and how he _obeyed_. John didn't matter anymore. No…that wasn't quite right. John _shouldn't_ matter anymore. Not here. Not now.

How he obeyed. Yes, that was the key.

He pulled the Dari letter from his pocket, examining his rough translation once more. It was written in a series of short—almost juvenile—sentences. Assumedly the Afghan man had been much better with a gun than he was with words.

_Be at 32.3, 62 between the dates of March 4th and March 26th. Target: male, 5'7, sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, sturdy build. Rank: Captain. Division: Fifth Northumberland Fusilliers. Name: Watson, John._

_ Shot must injure but not mortally wound or cripple. Do this any your payment will triple. Fail, and you're dead._

_M_

Moriarty had arranged for John to be shot. He'd _arranged_ it. All of it. Everything.

_Find out what it means_.

No! Stop. He needed to stop thinking about John. Thinking about John wouldn't help him now. The puppet—he needed to figure out who the puppet was. So what did he know?

Male—obvious from his boot size and strength. Sniper. Well experienced and specifically trained. Meticulous and able to follow directions without question. Probably military then. Highly ranked too, as men with such specialties often were. But what else? In two days, what had he learned?

_Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one. It'd be so funny._

Nothing. He'd learned nothing. This man was a man of shadows. He didn't live where everyone else did—he lived in Moriarty's world: a world spiders and flies. And this time…this time Sherlock was the fly.

**_~xXx~_**

Sherlock didn't know how many hours had passed by the time the third parcel finally fell through the mail slot—time wasn't something he normally concerned himself with—but it didn't matter, because this time he'd been ready for it. There, sitting crouched in the entryway, he watched as the tip of the envelope peeked through the small flap. His entire body seemed to come alive, springing into action and flinging open the door before the parcel even hit the ground.

He was rather unsurprised to find a homeless boy standing on his stoop—Moriarty's star pupil would never be stupid enough to drop Moriarty's journals off himself. The boy stared up at him for a long moment, his hazel eyes wide. One sweep of the state of his coat and trousers told Sherlock that he'd only been living on the streets for a couple of months. He was either very small for his age, or quite young, and he had the sort of small unsuspecting hands that back pockets loved to ignore. His face was plump, his cheeks red, and there was a bit of powdered sugar smeared across his left cheek. All these things pointed to the rather obvious fact that this boy had yet to feel the bitter sting of life on the streets of London.

Well, that was about to change.

Sherlock's hand shot forward, his fingers winding around the boy's arm and yanking him into the flat before he could even think to scream. The detective kicked the door shut with his heel before lowering himself down onto one knee, pulling the boy in close.

"Who sent you?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and stern.

Tears welled up in the boy's eyes almost instantly. Definitely not accustomed to the streets. "Let me go!"

"Who. Sent. You." Sherlock repeated, practically growling out the words.

"I—I don't know."

"You don't know or you don't want to say?"

The boy's lower lip quivered.

"Did he hurt you?" Sherlock scanned him once more, just to make sure. He seemed sturdy enough.

"No," the boy replied timidly. "He—he gave me Turkish delight."

Of course. Bribes often worked much better than threats with adolescent minds. And to a young boy who probably hadn't tasted sweets in months, Turkish delight was as good as a gold mine. Sherlock scowled. "Tell me what he looks like. Tell me his name."

"I don't know—"

"Tell me!" Sherlock snapped, shaking the boy hard. "You must've seen someone—talked to _someone_!"

"I don't know! I don't know!" Tears spilled over his cheeks as he struggled to pull away. "I've never seen him! He just leaves notes on my route with directions! All they have is an address and a time, and where to find the package! And then when I come back there's always candy waiting for me! That's all I know! I swear—that's all!"

Sherlock blew out a hot breath through is nose. No shifting of eyes. No nervous ticks. The boy was telling the truth. Damn. Sherlock released the boy, and watched as he stumbled back into the wall. "You need to stop accepting sweets from this man, do you understand?"

The boy stared back at him with wide red-rimmed eyes.

"Do you understand, boy?" Sherlock barked.

The boy nodded fervently.

"Get out of my flat."

He didn't waste a second. Within a blink the boy was scrambling out the door and down the porch steps. Once he rounded the corner, Sherlock fell fully to the floor, his body collapsing in on itself. Growling, he lowered his head between his knees, weaving his fingers through his hair and fisting the dark strands.

What was he supposed to do? The last body—Sherlock raised his head to look at the parcel.

He eyed it warily, his hand drifting over the paper along its path to shut the door. Hinges squealed and the tumbler latched, and there was an eerie sort of silence left in its wake. And the parcel just sat there, glaring up at him with that same slanted writing.

Doubt. How could this feeling keep haunting him like this? Before John he'd never had these sorts of problems. Before John…before John he'd never had anything.

With an apprehensive sigh, Sherlock picked up the package and rose to his feet. He slid his thumb under the envelope's flap and peeled it back, his pulse racing. This was it. This was the beginning of the end. The journal fell into his open palm with the dead weight of a brick. This was the last piece of the puzzle, but for once, the detective didn't want to see it solved.

Sherlock flipped open the journal, his eyes listing as they fell over Moriarty's now familiar handwriting.

_My dearest Sherlock,_

_ I'm afraid I don't know whether to be excited or heartbroken. Our little drama as almost played itself out, and I won't even get the joy of seeing your face in those last precious seconds. But, I suppose, it doesn't really matter in the end. Your time is mine—it always has been, and it always will be. Everything of yours is mine. So, I'll be expecting a grand thank you once all of this is said and done. You will thank me won't you, Sherlock?_

_ You'll find the last body in the southwestern corner of the woods near Corbank Cemetary. You should know it well—it's where John will have had you buried. You best hurry along now, Sherlock. You don't want to be late for our grand finale._

_Eternally yours,_

_Jim_

Without a moment's hesitation, Sherlock let the journal fall to the ground, and rushed outside to hail a cab.

**_~xXx~_**

Judging from the sun, it was somewhere around 4:30 in the afternoon. The forest floor was dark from an earlier summer shower, and the droplets of dew clung to his coat like lint as he made his way through the foliage. The grounds hung in a perpetual quite, broken only by the occasional crow of a raven and the snapping of twigs under Sherlock's shoes.

He'd been ambling about for some time, scouring his way through the forest and attempting to keep his mind from straying back to John. It had been a disappointingly unsuccessful venture. And then he saw it—the trail. A clear line where the leaves and dirt had been purposefully disturbed by something being dragged through them. Knowing he was meant to follow, Sherlock's pace quickened as he wove his way through the trees, and all the while he could hear John's voice in the back of his head.

_No, I know you for real_.

I know you for real.

For some reason those words were a constant mantra in his brain, each consonant falling in time with his stride. Of course John knew him—the real him. John knew him 100%. But now the question was…did he know John? The real John.

He followed the trail as it twisted and wove. It had no sense of purpose or care, as if the puppet had made it just to mess with him—like a scientist examining a rat as it makes its way through a maze to get the cheese. The body revealed itself not a moment later. It hadn't been well hidden—just positioned under some brush, lying on a black tarp, his limbs stretched out in the same fashion as the three before. A large patch of old blood bloomed from where he'd been shot though the heart, just under his fourth rib.

Mike Stamford.

Time seemed to freeze around him. Of course. Of course…it had to be Stamford. He could see it all so clearly—laid out before him like a picture of dots he just had to connect. The meticulous planning. The genius progression. Moriarty had orchestrated it all so perfectly. He'd known all along. He'd _known_.

A soft breeze stirred the forest air, and Sherlock's attention was pulled by the sound of two sheets of paper tacked to Stamford's shirt fluttering in the wind. Sherlock glided forward, hovering over the corpse just long enough to retrieve the papers before retreating back. He stared down at the top sheet, his eyes immediately drawn to the emboldened M in the bottom left corner. He stood like that for a long time, simply gazing down at the letter that Moriarty had written to Stamford in some not so distant past. There were words there…words he should be reading—words he _needed_ to read. But he couldn't. His hands were shaking too badly.

_Find out what it means_.

John. John was—

Sherlock's entire body went taught at the sound of a pistol being cocked just behind his left ear. The detective immediately raised his hands in surrender, his mouth pulling into a deep frown. "How did you sneak—of course, you were already waiting for me here."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," a deep gravelly voice hissed. The puppet. "So good to finally see you on the other side of my scope. Now, I'd like you to put those letters in your pocket, if you will."

Reluctantly, Sherlock lowered his left hand and stuffed the papers into his pocket. Think. Think. If he turned fast enough, maybe he could snatch the gun from—

"Alright now turn. Slowly now."

Sherlock began to turn, but to his surprise, the man turned with him, the bulk of his figure remaining at the detective's back, just beyond the line of his peripheral vision. That was odd, wasn't it? The man didn't want Sherlock to see him. Why didn't he want Sherlock to see him?

"Stop."

Sherlock did.

"Now start walking."

"What?"

"I said, _start walking_. Forgive me, I didn't realize you'd be hard of hearing."

"Why don't you just shoot me here?" Sherlock asked, meeting petulance with petulance. "What's one more dead body in the woods after all?"

"Now, now, Mr. Holmes," the man chuckled. "You're not as dull as all that, are you? Mr. Moriarty built you up to be such a fascinating specimen, and he devised such a special plan for you—I'd really hate to think it was all for naught."

Sherlock sneered. "So what's the point of doing what you say then, if you're not going to—"

"Just because I'm not shooting you now, Mr. Holmes, doesn't mean that I'm not going to shoot you at all. But first thing's first—I've got to take you to see Mr. Watson." There was a pregnant pause as he waited for his words to steep in the detective's brain. "Hurry along now, we don' want to be late."

**_~xXx~_**

* * *

Poor Stamford *tear* Quite tragic really. But enough about that! So, do you know what it means? Have you figured out Moriarty's master plan?

**Reviews help Sherlock solve cases faster! It's a proven statement of fact!**


	9. I Said Dangerous

**Title**: Out of the Night that Covers Me

**Author**: Aima D. Duragon

**Warnings**: Slash (Sherlock/John)

**Spoilers**: Seasons 1 & 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. If I did then I wouldn't have to write this story to satisfy my Johnlock fantasies.

**A/N**: Sorry this chapter is a bit short...but I think it'll be well worth it!

My beta, as of now, hasn't seen season 2 of Sherlock so I decided not to spoil it for her by having her read this. That being said, all mistakes are entirely my own!

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

"John?" Sherlock whispered. "You have John?"

"Have him?" The puppet hummed thoughtfully. "We could argue the semantics of it all day, Mr. Holmes, but all it boils down to is the fact that he's where I want him to be, when I want him to be there."

Sherlock scowled. Semantics or not, he didn't like it. The idea of John being manipulated in any manner set his nerves on edge. "So then, this is one of those 'do what I say or John gets hurt' scenarios?" Suddenly, Molly's voice was ringing in his ears—_who do you think they'd go after first_? Sherlock shook the words away.

"Hurt may be a bit of an understatement."

"How unoriginal."

"I'm more concerned with the end, Mr. Holmes, not the means. That being said, will you walk or not?"

Sherlock bit his tongue against the scathing words that were burning in the back of his throat. This was too simple. What was the point of taking him to John? If only he could read the letters—

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Why won't you face me? Afraid to look the reason for your master's death in the eye?"

"I know well enough what you can do with your eyes, Mr. Holmes, and I'd prefer to keep you in the dark if it's all the same. Now. Walk."

Pursing his lips, the detective began walking forward. The man trailed after him, making sure to keep at least five feet of separation between them at all times—he'd obviously done this before. Sherlock had no hope of stealing the pistol with such a gap between them.

"So have you enjoyed the case so far, Mr. Holmes?" the man asked, almost conversationally. He sounded like he was smiling.

"I didn't know it was meant to be enjoyed," Sherlock retorted.

"Mr. Moriarty always takes your enjoyment into consideration."

_Always takes_. Present tense. Interesting if not accidental. The word enjoyment, however, was chosen with purpose. It was meant to have a dual blade. Personally, Sherlock was rather of the opinion that torture and enjoyment were synonymous in Moriarty's mind. He'd said once that he liked to watch Sherlock dance. Well, dancing was one thing. Falling was another entirely.

"You know why I'm here, don't you?"

Mud squished under the heels of Sherlock's shoes as he trudged along. He glanced up, noting that the trees were beginning to thin. "You've been instructed to make sure that I've figured it out."

"And have you?"

"Of course I have," Sherlock snapped. "I'm sure you've noticed that he's gone out of his way to make it glaringly obvious."

"I think he just wanted to make sure the message hit home this time."

Sherlock snorted—this man and his double edged words were beginning to annoy him. "It was you that day, wasn't it? That day at the pool."

The puppet laughed. Apparently he found the memory humorous. "It was. The laser-sights were mostly for dramatic effect though. Mr. Moriarty has quite the flare for the dramatic."

"And now he's _dead_. What a thorn that must've left in your side. No one to get your hands dirty for anymore." It was a goad—an attempt to wheedle his way into the other man's head without actually having to see him. Hit a soft spot. Break his guard down. Sherlock waited and listened…but there was nothing. His steps didn't falter. His breathing didn't change.

"There's no harm in a man wanting to serve another man, Mr. Holmes. Especially a great man, and Mr. Moriarty is as great as they come. I'm honored to be at his bidding. It's something Mr. Watson and I have in common I think. He basically said as much when I was strapping that vest of Semtex on him."

"He's nothing like you," Sherlock hissed.

"You forget that you don't know anything about me, Mr. Holmes."

"I know enough." Sherlock couldn't help the snarl that marred his lips. "And it certainly doesn't take much to know that you and John don't even belong in the same sentence."

"You really have figured it out haven't you."

"Are you—" Sherlock cut himself off as the line of trees broke. They found themselves standing on the outskirts of the cemetery, just below the dip of a hill. The air smelled of wet grass and stone, and silence seemed to cling to the place like the grip of death. Sherlock's gaze swept across the grounds, taking in everything, and he felt his body stiffen as his eyes locked on to a lone figure standing in the distance.

John.

"Stop," the man said.

But Sherlock already had. He couldn't have taken another step forward if his life depended on it. His heart was pounding so hard he thought his ribs would crack, and his breath seemed to be caught somewhere in the back of his throat. John's body was hunched over a tombstone, which Sherlock immediately realized must be his, and even from this distance the detective could tell that he was crying. He looked so small…so impossibly small…

"Look approximately thirty-eight degrees northeast."

Sherlock turned his head but kept his eyes fixed on John. He'd already seen the sniper hidden amongst the brush, ready and waiting for whatever signal had been arranged between he and the puppet.

"I'm going to ask you a series of questions now, which you will answer concisely, promptly, and accurately. No quips. No retorts. And no proposals. I trust you understand what will happen if you break any of these rules."

The detective swallowed thickly. "How do I know you're not bluffing?"

"Does Mr. Moriarty ever bluff?"

"You're not him."

"No," the puppet was smiling again, "but I'm as close as you'll ever get now."

For once, Sherlock didn't have a response.

"Alright, let's get on with it then. What was the nature of Mr. Watson's relationship with each of the four people you found?"

"Sylvia Yaskoff was his professor and mentor at St. Barts, the Afghan was the sniper who shot him, Bill Murray was the nurse who tended to aforementioned shot, and Mike Stamford was an old friend from school." He blew out a quick breath. He could do this. If he could just spit out the words fast enough, maybe he wouldn't have to think about them. Maybe he could block it all out…

"And who did each of them work for?"

"Moriarty."

"What did Mrs. Yaskoff convince Mr. Watson to do?"

"Join the military and go to Afghanistan."

"Which did what to his psyche?"

"It awakened his preference of danger over normalcy."

"Why was he shot?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock struggled for a moment. The words were beginning to seep in through the cracks. "Moriarty needed him back in London."

"And why did Mr. Murray patch him up the way he did?"

"John needed to be able to be active but with some sort of hindrance to overcome first. It takes a great deal of pain and a significant trauma to cause a psychosomatic limp. Murray could've avoided its occurrence with a bit of morphine and some proper muscle therapy. The limp served to weaken John's resolve."

"And why, do you suppose, was Mr. Stamford in the park that day, seated along a route that Mr. Watson was known to frequent?"

John leaned forward to place his hand on the tombstone. "Someone needed to introduce him to me at the right moment."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes. Very good," the puppet said, his voice rumbling like thunder. "Now, tell me what it all means."

No, he couldn't. He couldn't say it and allow it to be true. The repercussions were too great. He'd come so far hadn't he? He'd grown to feel so much—so many things that he'd never even thought possible for himself. But then again…wasn't that the entire point?

"I'm not a patient man, Mr. Holmes."

"It means…it means that Moriarty handpicked John to be my partner—my _companion_. I'd never been able to sustain a lasting relationship with anyone, and it hindered my work. So he created a fail-safe. He placed in front of me someone he knew would be perfect—who he'd _cultured_ to be perfect. And I was naïve enough to believe it was coincidence. He needed me to be able to work, so he…" Sherlock broke off, choking on his own words.

"There's more," the puppet insisted.

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't. His chest was hurting so badly he couldn't see. It was like he was back on the roof of St. Barts, his toes hanging just over the ledge and the wind roaring at his back.

"Come now, Mr. Holmes. Where's that famous cold façade? Tell me the rest."

"It means…" Tears, hot and stinging, welled up in Sherlock's eyes. This was it. The fall—the _real_ fall. This was the end of everything.

"Tell me the rest, or John dies."

"It means that everything I thought was mine was never actually mine. It was Moriarty's. He was the one in control the whole time. He gave me John. He gave me a way to do my work. He gave me my heart, and with the pull of a trigger he can take it all away. It means that I never beat him…because I was never really playing. It was his game—his board, and I was just a piece on it."

The puppet gave a short breathy laugh. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Tears spilled over Sherlock's cheeks as he watched John straighten and step back from the tombstone. His lips were moving, forming around words Sherlock wished he could hear.

"As your reward, Moriarty will give you one final night with him. I trust you'll be able to track him down easily enough."

But there was one more thing—one more thing that he needed to know. In the end, it was the only thing that really mattered to him. "Did John ever know?"

Silence was his only answer. And when Sherlock turned, the puppet was already gone.

**_~xXx~_**

* * *

So much angst...

But at least Sherlock and John will reunite in the next chapter, so that'll be fun ;)


	10. And Here You Are

**Title**: Out of the Night that Covers Me

**Author**: Aima D. Duragon

**Warnings**: Slash (Sherlock/John)

**Spoilers**: Seasons 1 & 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. If I did then I wouldn't have to write this story to satisfy my Johnlock fantasies.

**A/N**: Late update! I have a friend in town so I was entertaining her for most of the day. That being said, this chapter may be a bit rougher around the edges than most. I may reread it and post a better update later!

My beta, as of now, hasn't seen season 2 of Sherlock so I decided not to spoil it for her by having her read this. That being said, all mistakes are entirely my own!

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

Finding John hadn't been hard. It hadn't been anything even resembling hard. Sherlock knew he wouldn't be staying at the flat—John was too sentimental for that—and of course, he didn't really have any close friends in the city. So that left hotels. As far as Sherlock understood, spending time away from home wasn't uncommon amongst people who'd suffered a significant loss. Why they would want to distance themselves from the comfort of familiarity though, was a mystery the detective had never bothered to solve.

Now however, standing outside of room 417 at the Baggend Hotel, Sherlock wished he had given it more thought. He stared at the ugly burnt red door; a ring of lock picks clinking together as he flicked them between his fingers. There was an odd sort of foreboding in the air, as if what lay on the other side of that door would determine the entire rest of his—possibly abbreviated—life. It was a ridiculous notion, he knew. He would've almost considered it base had he thought himself capable of being such.

Sherlock slid two of the picks into the lock, stubbornly ignoring the fact that his hands were shaking. He listened as the latch slid from the bolt. Really, why did the hotel bother even installing these sorts of locks? Pushing out a shallow breath, Sherlock turned the knob and opened the door.

A dense and eerily quiet darkness was awaiting him on the other side. Sherlock slipped through the threshold, the carpet crackling lightly beneath his feet. It was a quaint, sparse sort of room, with nothing to furnish it but an old dresser and a queen bed. There was, what Sherlock could only assume to be a loo, through the door to his right and there was a drip in the faucet that John had attempted to muffle by placing towels in the drain. The picture in his mind's eye was achingly vivid—John, grumbling under his breath about how 'things really aren't made like they used to be' while he poked and prodded at the plumbing. With a frustrated snort he grabbed a towel from the rack and shoved it into the sink, and with a final huff he turned towards Sherlock and—no. Stop. Focus. Sherlock stepped forward. He heard it then—the familiar soft sound of John's breathing. And suddenly his mind was gone again: back on Baker Street, sitting by the fire reading through case files while John lay passed out on the couch. It seemed so clear to him—John's hair catching the golden light of the fire, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand was draped so delicately over his forehead…

"John?" the word seemed to leap from Sherlock's mouth, unbidden. It sounded cracked, like something had broken his voice halfway through.

John's breathing changed and Sherlock was distantly aware of the door swinging shut behind him, cutting off the light from the hall. Now the only source of light was a pale moonbeam pouring in from a small window on the far side of the room, coloring everything it touched in hues of white and blue. The light shifted as John stirred beneath the sheets.

The doctor groaned softly, stretching his limbs like a cat. "Sherlock?" he muttered groggily. "Is that you?"

Sherlock swallowed and stepped farther into the room. "It is."

John groaned again and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Sherlock saw him blink several times. "It's so dark. I can't—" he looked around, "—where are we?"

There was a befuddled pause. "Baggend Hotel. Why?"

"We're…well we're usually at the flat, aren't we? And you're—I can usually see you better."

"John…" and then the realization hit him, like a freight train running at full speed. "John, this isn't a dream."

John hummed as if Sherlock had just commented on the weather. "So what's the plan for tonight? Kidnapped children? Peculiar murder? Corporate scandal? Jesus, it really is dark in here isn't it?"

Sherlock blinked. Was this really what John dreamed about? Solving mysteries with him? After everything he'd been though…?

_I said dangerous, and here you are_.

The detective closed the final space between him and the bed. John looked up at him, part of his hair sticking up, and wearing that small slanted grin that he seemed to reserve just for Sherlock. This time, for some reason, it made the detective's heart stutter. But then he noticed how the sheets were tangled around John's legs, and how the front of his shirt was drenched with sweat. Whatever dream John had been having before he thought he'd wandered into this one hadn't been pleasant.

"John," Sherlock said, as gently as he could manage. "I need you to listen to me very closely."

"Alright," John reached his hand out and placed it on Sherlock's arm as If it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sherlock felt his entire body go stiff as John stroked his coat with his thumb. He grabbed John's wrist to stifle the action. "John," he repeated, more sternly this time. "You're not dreaming."

John laughed, shaking his head. "Sherlock, it's alright. We don't have to hash this out again. I went to see Ella and I think she really—ow! OW! Jesus Christ!" John flinched back as Sherlock dug his nails into the tender skin beneath his palm.

There was a moment then where they just stared at each other. Then Sherlock saw it—the flicker of comprehension that changed John's expression. He saw the thought form and burst behind his eyes, and he felt the doctor's pulse spike. John jerked back, with such magnificent force and speed that Sherlock was nearly pitched forward onto the bed, but somehow he managed to maintain his hold on the other man's wrist.

"No!" John shook his head vigorously. "No! You're not him! I saw him die! What the hell is this? You're not him!"

"John, calm down! Look at me for God's sake! I'll explain everything, but—" Sherlock was cut off as John pulled him forward onto the bed. There was a mad scramble of limbs that somehow ended with John pinning him to the mattress. He didn't fight it though. If John needed to feel like he was physically in control of the situation, then Sherlock would give that to him. As long as he wasn't running for the door, the detective would let him have anything he wanted.

John's eyes flitted wildly over his face, dissecting every minute detail. He was trying to find something wrong…but he wouldn't. Sherlock met his gaze, determined to hold it for as long as John needed him to. "I—I'm dreaming." His grip on Sherlock's arms tightened painfully.

"You're not," Sherlock insisted patiently. "You wouldn't have felt me hurt your wrist if you were."

John's head was shaking again, and the moonlight would occasionally betray a shimmering in his eyes. "No. No…I saw you fall, Sherlock. I saw you—Jesus…." He looked away. "I saw you…jump off that roof. I saw your body after—your head busted open, and all your blood spilling out onto the pavement…"

"John…what you saw was a hallucination induced by the Baskerville chemical. It wasn't real."

It took a moment for the words to permeate the emotional fog of John's mind, but once they did, it was like watching the sun rise. His eyes snapped back to Sherlock's. "…The Baskerville chemical?"

"It had to be done. It was the only way to ensure your safety once I'd figured out—" John's fist slammed into his jaw. Pain rocketed along his bone as stars burst across his vision.

"What the hell do you mean ensure my safety!?" John roared. "You could've told me! You could've let me know_ something_! It's been weeks, Sherlock! Do you have any idea what it's been like for me? For Christ's sake, didn't you even think of me once? Didn't you…" John broke off as a sob choked his words. His hands moved to cup Sherlock's face as he sank down lower, pressing their foreheads together.

Sherlock couldn't remember ever being so still in his life. If only John knew—if only he could fathom just how much Sherlock had thought of him. If only he could understand the acute pangs of longing he'd felt for the doctor in his absence. If only John knew just how much Sherlock had missed him.

"God, Sherlock," John whispered. "I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead…"

And maybe it was the effect of having John so close to him now. Maybe it was something about the warm gentleness of his hands, or the hard readiness of his body. Maybe it was the fact that he could feel John's tears falling onto his cheeks. Maybe it was the way John's breath tasted as it pooled against his lips. Or maybe…maybe it was just because John smelled so much like _home_. There were things that still needed to be said, and there were things that still needed to be done, but not a single one of those things crossed Sherlock's mind as he curled his right hand around the back of John's neck. The slightest bit of pressure brought the other man in closer, and ever so gently Sherlock raised his head to press their lips together.

It was the barest touch of skin on skin, but even so the detective felt a shiver race down John's spine. The tingling behind Sherlock's ears returned with a fury, as if an electric current was running through is system and making his cells buzz. It felt like taking a hit of heroin, snorting a line of cocaine, and getting shot all rolled up into a single moment. His brain seemed to be stuck in high gear—processing every last detail and tearing it apart from the inside out. John—the way his lips felt. Soft. Warm. Wet. His face soaked with tears. The rough feeling of his stubble against Sherlock's jaw. His heart pounding against Sherlock's sternum. The way he smelled—like tea and musty sheets and something else that Sherlock had always identified as distinctly John. His skin. Heat. Everywhere. Surrounding him—enveloping him. Swallowing him whole.

It was spectacular.

Sherlock pulled back, panting as if he'd just sprinted five blocks. John stared down at him, unmoving. It took a moment for the detective to realize that this wasn't exactly the response he'd been hoping for. "Did I not do it correctly?" he asked.

"Correctly?" John swallowed. "You do realize you just _kissed_ me, right?" He said the word kissed as if it was a secret he wasn't sure he should be revealing.

"Do I look like Anderson? Of course I know that I kissed you."

John continued to look at him with his annoyingly unhelpful stare.

"Well?" Sherlock urged impatiently.

"Well what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I asked if I did it correctly, and you still haven't given me an answer."

"Well you'll have to forgive me if it's a bloody lot to take in! You just came back to life for Christ's sake!"

"I was never dead, John."

"You know what the hell I meant—Jesus, never mind." John sighed heavily against him. "I can't believe I actually missed you. Missed this—arguing."

For some reason, hearing those words spill over John's lips made Sherlock's heart swell. It was sentiment, he knew, but for once he didn't care.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock hummed. John's hands were still on his face, and they were as warm as down. They seemed to remind him that he hadn't slept in three days.

"Why'd you kiss me?" There it was again—that soft secret word.

"Does it matter why?"

"It matters to me."

Of course it mattered why. Why _always_ mattered. The problem was, Sherlock didn't know if he had an adequate response. All he knew was, "I wanted to." And that was it. He didn't want to think about it beyond that. Beyond that crept into dangerous territory he wasn't prepared to breach. Not without knowing. He _had_ to know. And he wished he could just see it in John's face—look at him and see everything just like he always had. But this was hidden somewhere beyond his sight. It was somewhere behind the veil, buried in a place that only a question could reach.

John rolled off of him, falling onto his back and resting his head on Sherlock's bicep. The fingers of his left hand curled around the detective's coat, gripping it tight. "I think I'm having a panic attack."

"You're just in shock. It'll pass."

If it was possible—and apparently it was—John squeezed his coat even harder. "I don't want it to," he whispered. "If feeling this way means that you're really here then I never want it to go away. You don't know what it was like, Sherlock. You don't."

Sherlock's hand slid down to cover John's. "I think I have an idea."

"Bill Murray is dead. He was shot. I saw the body."

Sherlock took in a deep breath and held it. He pressed his eyes shut, his thumb stroking the back of John's hand soothingly. The words 'I know' were on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to hold them back. It was too soon for that.

"I thought…someone sent me there, and I thought—afterwards—I thought that it was meant to be a case for me to solve. But without you there…" John trailed off, his thoughts broken and scattered.

A long time seemed to pass before John spoke again. Or it seemed like a long time—Sherlock couldn't really tell. "There was a reason you faked your death though, wasn't there?" John asked softly. "A reason that I could probably never understand or forgive you for, but was somehow big enough to make you do what you did?"

"You're cross with me?" For some reason, the idea that John might be angry had never occurred to him.

"I don't want to talk about being angry at you."

"Is that why you won't kiss me again?"

"Sherlock," John warned.

Sherlock pursed his lips together. Then he turned his head, trying to read something in John's profile. "I remember what happened in Baskerville," he said, watching the other man intently.

John tensed beside him. "What're you talking about?"

"That night in the hotel room."

"Sherlock…nothing happ—"

"I remember how you walked in on me after I had just taken a hit of heroin. I remember arguing with you, and pressing my lips against your neck so that I could feel the vibrations of your voice when you said my name." Sherlock brought his other hand across his body to stroke the smooth line of John's neck. And the detective wasn't as blind to the subtleties of sex as the doctor thought him to be. He could feel John's shiver, hear the tremor in his breath, see the flutter of his eyelashes, and he knew exactly what they all meant. "I remember massaging your shoulder, and the way you moaned when—"

"Alright _enough_!" John snapped, batting away Sherlock's hand. "That's not how it happened and you know it! What's gotten into you that you suddenly think—"

"Is that why you didn't tell me?"

Something in Sherlock's voice made John freeze. He looked over at him, his brows coming together to create a deep groove in the skin between. "Didn't tell you what?"

"That you're in love with me."

Neither of them moved. Then, suddenly, John's hand wasn't under his anymore. Sherlock could feel the doctor slipping away from him—shrinking back behind the walls and the rigid brave façade.

"You didn't tell me because you knew about Moriarty's plan, isn't that right?" Sherlock pressed, refusing to let John retreat any farther. "You knew?"

John's eyes went wide. "Moriarty's plan to what—to kill you?"

"No. No!" John tried to jerk away, but Sherlock held him fast. The moment was here. The moment was now, and he had to know that there was some kind of reason for it all. "Moriarty's plan to put you in my life. How could he have done is all so perfectly without you ever finding out? Without _me_ ever finding out? If you hadn't known I would've seen it before now. If you hadn't loved me—"

"Stop, Sherlock! For God's sake, stop!" John shouted, fresh tears blooming in his eyes and spilling over his cheeks. "You want me to tell you? Is that what you want? Fine! I bloody love you! I love you so much it hurts! I love you so much I can't fucking stand it! You think I haven't tried not to? You think I don't understand that you wouldn't want anything to do with it?" The muscle in John's jaw began to tense, so that the words had to be ground out. "So I've lived with you in this perpetual hell, and I've _endured _it, because the only thing worse than being with you is not being with you. Does it make you happy to hear that?"

Sherlock stared at him, taking in every fraction of movement and every possible meaning of expression. His eyes traced John's features, scanning them like a document. Brow tight. Eyes slightly widened. Pupils dilated. Nostrils flared. Cheeks flushed. Then he saw it. John's mouth. His mouth-the shape of it, how it curved and how his lips were pressed together just so. Sherlock could see it then, as clearly as looking at a cell through a microscope. The look. His memory hadn't done it justice. Everything in encompassed. Everything it meant. It was so much more than he'd ever dreamed possible.

John didn't know. _He didn't know_.

Pulse suddenly pounding against the base of his throat, Sherlock sat up. "We need to go."

John, still too grounded in his previous emotion to quite escape it, goggled up at him. "What?"

Sherlock leapt off the bed, straitening the collar of his coat. "We have things we need to get done before dawn. Come on, John." He extended out a hand to his partner. "We have to go back to the flat."

John looked at Sherlock's hand, appearing hopelessly confused, but after a moment, he took it.

**_~xXx~_**

* * *

Reunited once again! Oh man...I've been Johnlocking so hard this week.


	11. Trust and Faith

**Title**: Out of the Night that Covers Me

**Author**: Aima D. Duragon

**Warnings**: Slash (Sherlock/John)

**Spoilers**: Seasons 1 & 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. If I did then I wouldn't have to write this story to satisfy my Johnlock fantasies.

**A/N**: This chapter was beyond hard to write...don't really know why.

My beta, as of now, hasn't seen season 2 of Sherlock so I decided not to spoil it for her by having her read this. That being said, all mistakes are entirely my own!

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

"Sherlock," John groused from somewhere on the couch, which had been moved approximately thirty-seven inches to the right of its previous position and angled 20 degrees away from the wall. "Would you please stop darting about like a cat that's just had its tail stepped on? You've checked everything over at least a hundred times."

Sherlock's eyes flew over the room, taking in every inch—calculating and recalculating. "It has to be perfect, John." He ran his fingers along a string, testing out the pulleys once again.

"Well I might be more understanding if I knew what everything had to be perfect _for_."

Sherlock peeled his eyes away from the string to look at John. The early morning sun was just starting to peak over the line of buildings across the street, lighting their flat in a warm orange glow. It made John's hair bright as the tip of a flame. Sherlock took two steps towards him, and John squirmed slightly under his gaze. "Can't you trust that there's a reason that I'm not telling you?"

John's raised his chin, exposing the smooth line of his throat. "To be frank, I don't have much faith in your reasoning lately, Sherlock."

Sherlock stubbornly ignored the stinging sensation in his stomach that came with John's words. "Understandable," he replied simply. He motioned for John to scoot to the edge of the couch. The doctor complied, albeit a little begrudgingly, and Sherlock plopped down on the cushion to his right. He threw his head back to stare at the ceiling and spread his legs just enough that he could feel the heat of John's thigh against his own.

John sighed, his brows pulling together. "You're really not going to tell me?"

"The odds don't really seem to be in your favor."

"So what are we supposed to do then? Sit here and…stare at the bloody wall until something happens?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Accurate if not unimaginative."

"Unimaginative?" John seemed insulted by the word.

"We could do other things besides stare at the wall. We could talk."

"Talk as in…chat?"

Sherlock looked at him. "Aren't they the same thing?"

"Sherlock, you don't chat. You _never_ chat."

"What do I do then?"

"You talk as if you can hear the whole other side of the conversation in your head already."

Sherlock smiled at that, and returned his gaze to the ceiling. "I usually can." He'd put enough emphasis on the word usually that he expected John to remark on it, but he didn't.

John shifted in his seat, angling himself away from Sherlock and resting his head against his hand. "Shouldn't we tell Mrs. Hudson?"

"I don't want her involved."

"She's going to be upset. More so if she knows you were here without telling her."

"As upset as you are?"

John was silent for a long moment. "For different reasons."

Sherlock could feel the weight of those words press down on him. There was pain in them, and something a little darker too. Regret maybe? Sherlock cast a quick sidelong glance at the other man, but it told him nothing beyond the obvious. He returned to studying the strings.

The seconds ticked by, slow and unrelenting, and Sherlock could feel himself slipping into them. When had it become hard for him to separate himself from time? Usually it just moved around him, like a river around a sharpened rock, quick and unfaltering. The strings were all right, weren't they? He couldn't tell. "John," Sherlock said, his voice soft and careful, "it makes it hard for me to think when you're like this."

John snorted. "When I'm like what?"

"Brooding," Sherlock replied simply.

John pushed out a loud breath through his mouth, but said nothing. He was staring at the floor like he wanted it to open up beneath him and swallow him whole.

"You're still doing it."

"Well what do you want me to do then?" John snapped. "Get up and dance like a monkey?"

Sherlock pulled his attention away from the strings to look at John once more. He was angry—his face was pulling together in its usual contorted way that would've had Sherlock hightailing it to his room had not their position been so vital. "Why on earth would I want you to do that?"

"That's about all I'm good for, isn't it?" John leveled him with a cool glare. "Entertaining you at your own convenience?"

Sherlock met John's glare steadily. "You know that's not true."

"Then why won't you tell me what's going on?"

"I'm trying to _protect_ you."

"No, you're not," John snapped. "You're trying to _baby_ me. Do you think I'm incompetent? Is that it?"

"You've been kidnapped twice, John, lest you forget."

This, apparently, was not the right thing to say.

"Jesus!" John threw his arms up, and practically sprang from the sofa. "You're not going to do this to me, Sherlock! I'm not going to let you! You may have saved me, but I've saved you too! You can't just ignore that!"

Sherlock's eyes flickered over to the window for the briefest of moments, his pulse quickening its already fast pace. "What? Have I not adequately thanked you? Has your ego not been sufficiently stroked?"

"Don't try to turn this into something that it isn't! We're supposed to be partners, aren't we? Because if that's not what we are, then I don't want anything to do with this anymore! I don't want to be another one of your burdens!"

"Well it's too late for that!" Sherlock was surprised by the explosive anger in his voice. "Don't you understand, John? I'm _haunted_ by what could happen to you! I see it when I'm thinking, I see it when I'm sleeping, I see it when I'm in the bloody shower!"

John's face had faded from red to an ashen white. His temper seemed to constrain him now, rooting him to the floor. "What do you see?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I see you in that vest."

John's Adam's apple bobbed. "The one with the—"

"Yes, yes, the one with the Semtex." Sherlock had to run over his words quickly. He couldn't afford to let them seep in through the cracks. "Just come sit back down, will you?"

"I can't. I've listened to you, but now you've got to listen to me."

Whatever nonsense John was sprouting was meaningless to Sherlock's ears. John's head was dangerously close to the strings, and the sun seemed to be shining on him like a spotlight. "John, you need to sit down."

"Are you even listening to a single word I'm saying?"

"John!" Whipping his hand out, Sherlock caught John by the wrist and pulled back with all of his strength. Sherlock saw John's eyes widen as he lost his balance and toppled forward. He landed quite gracelessly in a half sprawl on the detective's lap, his breath coming in heavy pants against the exposed skin at Sherlock's neck.

The air around them went still, and the silence seemed to hold them there. Their eyes met, and Sherlock saw a different sort of heat bloom across John's cheeks. He still had a firm hold on the doctor's wrist, and for some reason he wasn't inclined to let it go. For a moment, every single thought seemed to fly from his brain, and all he knew was the heat of John's body pressing against his own.

John breathed against him, trembling ever so slightly. "Sherlock," he whispered, and the word sounded like a plea. "This…this isn't…"

It was almost strange having John so close to him—being able to see every pore in his skin. His eyes looked like two precious gems, the color of a stormy sea reflecting brilliant flashes of lighting, glittering and flawless. All the air seemed to leave Sherlock's lungs at once, and for a second he didn't quite know where he was or why. "This isn't what?"

"I can't do this with you," John said so quickly that all the words seemed melded together. "Not like this. It's not healthy."

Healthy? Sherlock's eyes flicked over John's face. Why? Why was it unhealthy? It was so simple—two bodies responding to an increased level of hormones due to physical stimulation. Biologically, there wasn't anything out of the ordinary about it. But John had the habit of speaking outside the normal terms of biology. "You really think," for the first time Sherlock found his mind was working slower than his mouth, "that I don't trust you?"

John tensed against him. "I don't just _think_ that, Sherlock. You couldn't even…" his words fell off with a broken sigh.

"I couldn't what?"

"You couldn't even trust me enough to tell me that you were alive."

For some reason, John's words made Sherlock's throat tighten painfully. He stared at John; at the crease between his brows and the hard line of his mouth. "He…" Sherlock swallowed against the large lump that had formed just behind his tongue, "he tried to use you against me, John. It was supposed to be a trade—your life for mine."

There was a moment of silence and a heavy breath. "Moriarty?"

Sherlock nodded, his mouth pulling into a grimace. "He was so _determined_, and I thought—I thought, what's to keep anybody else from doing the same thing? What's to keep it from happening again? And—John—if I ever failed you-"

"You never fail, Sherlock."

"But if I did—"

"You won't," John insisted, his eyes piercing. "You can't. Not you."

Sherlock finally released his hold on John's wrist, trading it instead for his soft pale hair. It slid through is fingers, fine and smooth as silk, and Sherlock couldn't understand why he'd never thought to touch it before. It seemed like such a natural thing now. He wondered how such a faith was possible—how this man's unwavering belief in him still held strong even after all they'd been through. He wondered if Moriarty had known it would exist.

"Sherlock?"

Trust. Faith. John had given those things to him without question. Without hesitation.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

Sherlock blinked. "The death of your friend had to do with me," he blurted the words out before he could think better of them.

He saw John's expression morph from confusion to shock. "What?"

"Bill Murray. The man who—"

"I know who you're talking about," John said, somewhat unsteadily. "What I want to know is what you meant."

Sherlock swallowed against another lump. "Moriarty had a plan for what would happen if our final game resulted in his death and not mine. He wanted to…teach me a lesson." His eyes dropped, as did his hand. John suddenly felt much too close. "He wanted to show me that I hadn't beaten him—that I _couldn't_ _ever_ beat him, because he'd always held the hand that couldn't be beaten. He sent me a series of murders—four bodies—that told a story, and I was supposed to figure out what that story was."

John's hand lifted to his shoulder, and Sherlock found his eyes pressing shut. "What was it, Sherlock?"

"It was you." Sherlock opened his eyes, staring straight at John and imploring him to understand.

John's hand fell. "Me?"

"Moriarty knew about me for a long time, but I wasn't what he wanted. I wasn't my best. I was missing something—someone. So he sent me you."

"He sent…me?" A pale sort of dread began to stretch John's face. Slowly he peeled himself from Sherlock's lap. "Sherlock…that's not possible…Stamford was the one who—"

"He was working for Moriarty. So were Sylvia Yaskoff, and Bill Murray, and the man who shot you. Don't you see? It was all a ploy—a maze that he built that would lead you directly to me."

"Sylvia Yaskoff? My…anatomy professor? Sherlock, that was—Jesus—that was ten years ago."

Sherlock didn't respond. He didn't even move.

"What are you trying to say? That it was all…planned? That the last ten years of my life have just been…?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes."

"That's not…this isn't…" Shaking his head, John rose to his feet, his entire body trembling. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Isn't this the sort of thing that you want me to tell you? Isn't that what you just said?"

A beat of silence. "How long have you known?"

The biting accusation in John's tone was enough to render Sherlock's tongue immobile. He stared at the other man, something in his chest growing hot.

"Don't give me that look, Sherlock," John hissed. "I know you. You could've spotted something like this from a mile off. You would've noticed. So, what then? You were just messing with me the rest of time? Enjoying watching me make a fool of myself falling all over you?" The pain in his voice was palpable. He looked like he was unraveling.

"I've only known for two days, John. Maybe less."

"That's bullshit!"

It was just then that Sherlock realized how far John was standing from him, and how high the sun had grown in the sky. It was blazing through their windows with a bright and untamed fury. His head whipped back to John. "Come back over here, John."

"This is too much, Sherlock. I can't—it's too much." John's knees began shaking violently, and his face had grown alarmingly pale. He pressed his palm to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. "Sherlock."

Sherlock felt his entire body go taught.

_BANG!_

The gunshot resounded through the air like a crack of thunder, broken only by the sound of shattering glass and a body hitting the floor.

"JOHN!"

**_~xXx~_**

* * *

Ooooooooooooooooh snap...


	12. For a Moment

**Title**: Out of the Night that Covers Me

**Author**: Aima D. Duragon

**Warnings**: Slash (Sherlock/John)

**Spoilers**: Seasons 1 & 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I do not own Sherlock. If I did then I wouldn't have to write this story to satisfy my Johnlock fantasies.

**A/N**: Short chapter I know...but we're nearing the end!

My beta, as of now, hasn't seen season 2 of Sherlock so I decided not to spoil it for her by having her read this. That being said, all mistakes are entirely my own!

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

Sebastian Moran sat crouched on the floor in a vacated flat just across the street from 221B Baker Street, the reverberations of his shot still trembling in his bones. All he could see in his scope was a plumbing of dust, but he was confident he'd hit his mark.

John Watson was dead. It was over.

He lowered his rifle, his blood heating with elation. He'd done it all so perfectly—just like James had instructed. The only thing that could've made the moment better was if he had been able to see Sherlock's eyes as John had fallen before him. They were probably the most exquisite shade of blue when they were brimmed with pain and tears. James had always loved Sherlock's eyes.

It had all come together so perfectly; more perfectly than he could've ever hoped. But that was just part of James' genius, he supposed. James had always been able to accomplish things that Sebastian had never even dreamed possible. He was so much more than a man. He was something else, beyond the realm of humankind—floating high above the clouds and gazing down at the world with all-knowing eyes. Sebastian had seen it the very first moment they'd met—it was seared into his mind like a brand. His sole purpose in life had been to serve this exquisite being trapped in the confines of flesh and blood, and serve him he had. Twelve long years…and now there was nothing left.

In that moment, he wanted to think that James would be pleased with him. He wanted to think that, just once, a word of praise would fall over those thin lips. Sebastian would've cherished that word for the rest of his life. But there was nothing. The silence was stark, and definite.

The door to the room crashed in with a resounding bang. Two pairs of feet hurried into the room, followed shortly after by two calmer pairs. Calmly, Sebastian lifted his hands from his weapon and interlaced his fingers behind his head. "I didn't expect you lot to be so quick about it," Sebastian said.

"Stay where you are!" one of the policemen shouted. "Hands on your head!"

"They're already there," Sebastian said, grinning madly. Normal people really were idiots.

"I doubt you'll be smiling for very long. You're being charged for murder."

The sound of that voice grated at Sebastian's nerves like nails on a chalkboard. A slick sort of shiver ran across his skin as he turned his head to face the other man. "Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade's lips pressed into a hard line. "Glad to know my reputation precedes me. Cuff him, boys."

Three policemen swarmed him, pulling his arms down and clamping handcuffs around his wrists. This…this wasn't right. Inspectors didn't travel around with patrolmen. Lestrade had known. He had—

"You're wondering how we knew you would be here, aren't you?" Lestrade asked, pushing his hand into his pocket to retrieve his mobile. He began typing a message, the clicking of the buttons somehow cutting through the sound of Sebastian's breathing. "Well, I'm sure Sherlock would be more than happy to inform you. You've gone and pissed him off though, I'm afraid. So don't expect the talk to be pleasant."

**_~xXx~_**

Sherlock inhaled sharply, dust filling his lungs and making the back of his throat burn. He was crouched on the floor, surrounded by a splay of glass and wood, cradling John's limp body in his hands. He was shaking. Why was he shaking?

"John," his voice came out in a hoarse trembling whisper. Sherlock drug in a couple more ragged breaths. Something was happening to him. He couldn't see straight. "John, come on. Wake up."

John didn't move.

Sherlock raised a hand to the doctor's cheek, knowing that it should've gone to feel for a pulse instead. "John," he choked out the word. What was happening? Why did his eyes hurt like a pressure was building just behind the line of his skull? His mind seemed to be malfunctioning. He could only see one thing, playing over and over and over again. John, strapped in a vest laced with—No! Stop. "Dammit, John, you're not shot. You're _not_…" This damn dust. It felt like he was suffocating. His entire chest hurt, a white hot pain radiating out from his sternum. He glanced around desperately as he curled his arms around John's torso.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock hoisted John off the ground and began dragging him backwards out of the living room. Sherlock's room was just a few feet away, but he could feel the muscles in his arms beginning to cave. Slowly he lowered John back to the ground, propping him up against the wall. He needed something. What did he need?

His feet were moving before his mind had the chance to catch up. He raced into the kitchen, yanking open drawers and pulling open cabinets. Where was it? Where was it? His hands moved along vials and jars, still shaking violently. He knocked one out and it shattered on the floor in a violent spray of liquid and glass. It might've been an acid, in which case it would be in Sherlock's best interest to stop it from eating through the floor. But he didn't know. He didn't _care_. He pushed aside a few more jars before—there! Sherlock grabbed the bottle labeled 'ammonia' and hurried back to John's side.

His fingers worked at the lid, but they slipped across the metal like ice, so he wrapped it in his shirt instead. Muscles straining, the lid finally came loose, and he threw it to the side before slipping the edge of the jar beneath John's nose.

There was a terrifying moment of silence.

John gasped, his eyes flying open and going wide. Sherlock discarded the ammonia and leaned in towards the doctor, his hands smoothing over John's face. "You're alright," Sherlock didn't know whether he was asking John or telling him.

"Sherlock," John breathed, his chest rising and falling much too quickly. "I—"

"You fainted," Sherlock said.

John looked at him, and Sherlock felt something in his stomach tighten painfully. "For a second…I thought…"

Sherlock pressed his eyes shut, soaking in the heat of John's skin beneath his hands and telling himself over and over that it was real and now and here. "I did too."

"Sherlock." A wave of panic flickered over John's gaze. "Was that—was that a gunshot?"

Sherlock's mobile buzzed in his pocket. Heart quickening, he released his hold on John to pull it out. There was a text from Lestrade: _We've got him. Was right where you said. Bringing him in for questioning now._

The detective powered down the screen and shoved the device back into his pocket. He glanced at John, feeling as if his skin was about to melt off his bones. "You're alright?" It really was a question this time.

John nodded, albeit unsurely. "I think so. What was the text?"

"It was from Lestrade. They've got the man who was trying to shoot you in custody."

"The man who tried to—" John choked on the last words.

"I need to go in and question him," Sherlock said, trying his best to not think about the way that John was looking at him now. "Will you be alright here?"

John shook his head, color draining from his face. "No. No. I'm going with you."

"John, there's no point in—"

"I'm _going with you_."

Sherlock held his tongue, searching the creases in John's face. What he found there made him feel sick to his stomach. "You're afraid I won't come back."

Silence filled the space between them. John dropped his gaze to the floor, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth together.

Sherlock pushed himself up to his feet, extending his hand out to John. "It's fine, John. It's all fine."

**_~xXx~_**

* * *

You guys didn't really think I'd knock off poor John, did you? :)


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